I can hear drips
inside my dream,
a dark, disheveled room.
An old ache,
from our love.
And a clean vein from
the melody I’ve lost.
 
At 3 A.M.
I wake,
a momentary pulse
rubbed with static.
Your very shadow
still a deep rage.
Your inimitable face,
not really lost.
In an age like this,
who wants to
flit from grief to grief?
 
I hear a voice
saying my name,
and I enter with
relief some quiet place.
There is no memory
of her here, but new love
yearning to be taken again.
The night collapses
 into my skin,
and I cannot
resist the touch.
A lightness to what
was underground.