On those clearest
cold mornings, there's always
somebody else's
shadow in here with me,
drinking coffee in a perfectly
chintzy Ikea chair
and gazing out the window at
freshly fallen snow
while I write
by curving
lines of light
those weapons of the enemy;
about a million
miles away from Never Land, I
nonetheless feel
the warm dark's absence,
but I feel this
as a presence. As if—
together, we are neither
body nor mind, but
a third thing.
Separately, of course, we
could never be
described.
