The party is in another room
but the hallway is safe for silence
and you tell me there’s something in winters
that keeps them coming back again and again
and I laugh because I think you said sinners
so again I ask where you come from
and you tell me there are moons
that never see sunlight, books that never
see rain, and I try to shake my head clear
but it doesn’t help because you start again:
telling me about the windows in the attic,
the basement in your dreams, the cost
of friction when friction means dreaming.
I try to stand to go to the bathroom
but you pull me down into a puddle of bones
and finally I know your words make sense.
Listen to this poem:
