This is the moment
you are most alone,
systems thudding blood,
breath stretching to a yawn.
A tear made of the day
escapes like the slow start of rain
and your fingers curl slightly.
Around what? The street sounds
doppler away, also refusing to be held.
There's no fear of the numbness
that creeps through you now,
let it come,
loosening muscle, thinning thought.
At this hour, the mind talks in riddles
its language a mystery that will leave you
breathless, nightshirt pounding,
broken by the same dreams
that traveled so far to touch you.
(first pubbed in Red Booth Review)