Thursday, September 30, 2021


Occasionally, very 
first thing 
in the morning, 

a person 
may sense for a minute
the faint pressure—

like a handprint 
on the bedspread, 
still there from the night before—

of all of queued dreams 
which the dawn 
has left stranded. 

Still fuzzy, 
this person can't begin 
to imagine 

what tender and doleful  
scenes they've abandoned.
And yet, 

faint depressions
of each character remains—
a surface tension 

as subtle but urgent as 
moisture in the atmosphere, 

as full as the low clouds 
which have gathered 
at the horizon's corners, 

obscuring the sun, but 
declining to rain.