You think that you’re going to sense these things.

Like your morningly torrent of dreams
will do more than stumble in on time
to the insistent ticking
of internal clocks.
Like you’ll toss from the sheets and twirl to your feet
in a most cinematic fashion,
only to fall on your hands and knees -
but you don’t.

You get up.

So mundanely routine that you cling to your sleep -
brush its blue, love worn fringe to your cheek,
and wrap it round pale morning shoulders.

I pull a sweater over dampened curls,
smooth out the creases with my fingers.
My ears are full of stolen words:

a name,


a truth,



a gentle curse,
blown from my lips
like a kiss,
without a face to fall on.