“May my tongue cling to the roof of my
if I do not remember you,
…my highest joy”
My window blurs with rain this morning. I woke up too late.
Mirror, brushing hair.
Wondering, what to write?
Caught in the tangle of rush-morning-minutes.
I stretch my sides, rivers of blood, spots in the air. I am curling, brushing.
Have I thought of what I wanted to write?
This is my kneeling. By the bed, in the morning, the rain outside, the calm somewhere other than my mind.
Have I breathed?
Someone wrote “Shannon, I dreamt you were reading God” I brush eye shadow, lips. God. “Shannon, I dreamt.”
When was the last dream God was standing in a row of cows? In a field?
You placed your hand on me. I wondered. Have I breathed?
Rain, 80% chance. By the bed. This is my kneeling.
In the rush-morning-minutes.
You wanted to know, what I compose to. Is it Bach? Brahms. The sideways cab-drivers.
Somewhere, a man is drinking gin.
But inside a room, somewhere. Shannon, I dreamt you.
My window blurs with rain this morning. It’s late. But what will I write today? Your movement.
You push me through the door, into the rain.
I’ve loved your belly before. I felt rolling into me, your dream.
Is it raining? Have I breathed?
Somewhere, You’re dreaming I’m reading God.
Is it in a field? Am I laughing?