THAT MORNING, LIKE THIS

A hand and surprise. We are caught in this dream again. In this dream again, interspersed and beating, beading, like that, on that lip. Huddled, pale light sketched and held in pale hands. This room is orange and green. It is not ours.

Aware of a flickering space. Aware of a hand, now gone, now interspersed, this room is green. This room is gray in this light. This room is gray in this space, hanging, diffuse, permeable. Unable to breathe. Pink like that and pale. This room is not where we are.

Once again drawn in. Pale light sketched and held in pale hands. It must be morning, it must be spilling over and cold. In it we are interspersed.