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.
