Waiting for Dreams
It was 1:15 in the early morning
When he took that shower to wash off your scent
from that part of his body where the sensation of realness
had been kept muffled for more than a day and an ocean away
He knew his wife was in menstruation and would be reclining
on the other side of the bed along the windowsill
He did have managed to fall into sleep
But you did not enter as you had promised
You didn’t you didn’t
He resisted opening his eyes he needed the dark
to make believe that he was still in an in-between state
and that you would somehow be able to infiltrate
Since you had promised you had promised
to cause him to dream to bring him the dreams as he had dreamt
But you didn’t do you didn’t do
I have been keeping watch all the time
over his wakefulness which he didn’t wake to deny or reject
The tropical miasma is not fatal No it isn’t
It is its unstoppable infiltration into the sense of hurt that is hurting
A halo of frustration floats over the stillness of his primordial posture
as he huddles himself into an ear listening for
the stilled hurt in your murmur “Don’t go, Darling! Don’t”
The red digit above his feet changes from 4:41 to 4:42
as I am transcribing in my mind his desperation to you
You my darling witch why don’t you perform your charm?
Is it because the daylight is still lingering there, longer than it should?
Nov. 7, 2002
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