I
While I sleep, my
fingers trace ocean
maps, aerial
on papier-mâché,
where tulips thrive
an alabaster winter
I disperse delicate
petals, exposing
colour’s spread,
filching the smooth
surfaces as I count
backward
II
In mornight I see
her in an embroidered
rocking chair;
she hums, content,
busyness in her hands;
knit one, purl two
weaving rainbows,
hands of springtime,
a hint of clicks (echoing),
perfection’s bending
angle; rose polished
nails, she continues
harmonious,
her bones stitched
within my hands
III
Sometimes, during
the evening, there’s
vagueness; redolent,
it represents soliloquy —
broken drafts, messages
swept into ether
as dusty moments
eclipse doors ‘neath
sunset’s symmetry
Placing a pen in hand,
my wrist curves toward
these fingers, drawing
salt from my skin
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