Think daggers. Think the
perfect incision of a scalpel,
lonely blood, the sky full of
stars. So few. Think the city
too bright, too close. Think close
quarters, acid tea, broken plates,
home. Think healing from the
last wound, ankle broken, crawling
out of a cave. Think meeting the
end of the road, a kiss you were
never meant to find. Think keys
sewn into the lining of a flannel.
Think maybe her smile.

Wake to tractors. Wake to
the churn of abstract life—
snorting existence like some
common street drug. Wake to
butter burning in the pan, fried
eggs crusting over, dehydrated
waffles served while you sleep.
Wake to sheared hair, braided
sweetgrass growing through the steel
floor. Wake to vacuum cleaners
and hugs from behind. Wake to
stone, and stone, and stone, and stone.
Wake to the things you want to
say. Wake to not enough time. Wake
to smoke through the broken seal.

Her voice is in your ear, breath
on your neck, water rushing
through the air around you. If
only you could turn around, no
longer dreaming but a solid thing.
If only you hadn’t eclipsed her. The prow is
steady. Her arms around you.
Prismatic reality, the world
distending, a crayfish’s prayer.
Can you feel it? Pebbles beneath
our feet. We could have dreamed
together. I forgive you for forsaking
me. You did well. Now, rest.