tuesday, february 11

sometimes the frame shifts
and you let go the edges of
your own dissolution
and come to standing in a place
somewhere beyond the acknowledged
boundaries of your own life
you wake in the mornings not from
sheets knotted with hungover delusion
but from dreams
of your beloved dead
of broken loves made understandable
of longings not without compass
in the world
and in the space made by knowing
all those absences laid bare
you can see, if only for a fragile,
collapsing instant
clear to some horizon
usually obscured