April 17th — Gardens
1 min readApr 18, 2020
Morning arrives different today
after the frost.
A drip echos, falls Into the
Sink as IFinish filling the coffee pot.The grey hangs on us like rags
and cardigans while
I tell you
about why I cried
In my sleep.my voice moves the steam from
our mugsyou smile amid the redeye reveal
of sleep or whatever you call
what last night was.You could sing me your songs of
everyday everywhere
of flowers of gardensbut today. No.I speak of hypnopompic
whatever,
and the moving light of day streaks
through the kitchentoday. You talk as if when the sun
comes in
theres nothing left
theres no longer a shadow behind you.
