honeydunce

Tattered reams of movies
used as sheets, kicked off by the lazy birthday waltz
of your feet in dreaming–
a slow pedal kick through water or
twitch of shock when the old friend comes back
explaining “well I was never really gone.”

Three people are asleep in the theater,
each one missing a different plot
slow light disappear then lifting
across a cleft chin, cracked lips, furrow sloping into bridge.
Mistake and misery bypassed while
the rest of the audience cries or pretends not to cry
(the kind of thing we do because
we always assume that someone’s watching us)

There is a drift and leaving.
A departure that swells in us,
blocks out the other bodies, the traffic,
the kind of slumber that requires walking and function,
days of it you can stack into nickel pisas
the kind of mess you can make with you whole heart
the undecided blue of the room
(it could be early morning,
it could be just beginning night.