I search for your nocturnal self among the spiders in the attic,
my fingers grope in the deep indigo of this dream, but you do not show.
Perhaps you are still on a caravan journey through the desert,
letting books rot away on the shelf.
Were you looking for shells on the beach, did you wear a dress
even in that scorching heat? I could have been your husband
making huts from twigs I found in the sand. I swam
in the folds of your dress. Songs would have issued from heaven.
Could have. Time is never ripe. We are still such mindful creatures
and do not heed that quiet command.
See the trembling cealing. We walk sideways and askew
in separate corridors, like halting spiders, awkard and silent.