Into the Night

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In dreamless sleep I come to you
And what I do there
And what I see there
Does not come back with me

Still I ache to remember
A feeling, not a memory
The ache is wonder and horror
Caught in the back of my throat

I am aware of it
Like tangled bedsheets
Like blue toothpaste on white porcelain
Like a scab on my knee
Pulling at my skin.

All day long I am grateful
To be here
In the heat of the day
Breathing shallowly the moistured air
Wiping excess humidity from face and arms.

But when the sun stops sliding over
The western wall of my life
And gone to his other lovers
I start to think of my still bed
The coolness of the linens
That might wrap my tired limbs.

I begin again to ache to travel
To where you are
I eat my dinner, feed my dog
Until I come once again
Into the night.

Thoughts on a Future Grief

image of a rock in the sea
Small rock off the Horn of Ramsness, Fetlar by Mike Pennington

Is it strange to enumerate what we have
By knowing what we are missing?

Do the contents of emptiness somehow form a container for what exists?Where in the void can it be found, that list?

Is it in a rock rising suddenly from under a wave?
Does it live in the step missed while traveling downwards?
The drop of water that escapes the glass
Slides downward to fall
Disappearing on summer concrete?

Perhaps it is in the flail of limbs in that moment
You find yourself in the nothing while sleeping.

Is it strange to enumerate what we are missing
By what we have?

When we count our blessings
Is a shadow list formed as we write
Mirroring the lines in lemon juice
Seen only by the heat of our tears?