Once I dreamt
I played a bit part—
just a face
on the street—
in someone
else's dream.
No lines to read
or spotlight
to hog, no interior
monologue.
to be "one of them"
felt like nothing
at all—which,
in and of itself,
was a massive
relief.
*
in the wake
of a tragedy
say to their
loved ones
there are no words—
I hereby admit
I am moved
by that statement
to astonishing flights
of jealousy.
*
If everything we do
is music,
then
sometimes I don't
care one bit
which of us is left
still twisting
and which of us
now is the
turbulent wind.
