In my drafty
dreams—the silent
pale and soft-
cornered
nude—descending
just as I—five a.m.
half-
sleeping—trudge roughly upward
toward—the goal
of a certain
off-white porcelain
bowl at the top—suddenly
stops—all of her stylized
declining
motion
a moment
in order
to raise up—a trifle
more realistically
her fair and her
alabaster
hand in the dark to
high-five
me—there on my cold laminate stairs.
