This morning, I levitate
The sky peels itself from
the windows, undressing
midday
into half light,
shadows dripping
from the ceiling.
Where are you, lover?
These
rooms have teeth.
The silence makes me feel all white
how does quiet become a mirror?
Grasping at cloth, at glass,
at sunlight, a dream. More seraphim,
a winglet. Droplets hushing into something
like a breath, tendrils of us
bead and contour,
serrating the day.
I magpie for you. Cobalt feathers,
little trinkets made of moss and
shell and stick. Tokens of heaven and
earth, the vase and the helianthus,
treading water between the worlds.
This is how you're saved, I say
But you never listen.