a bath overspills like a southern drawl. Dripping
into an unsuspecting kitchen,
it anticipates
the glamour
of being

And somewhere, a flower tucked between
two pages of a book
is woken
by hands reaching for
a poem.

Somewhere the day looms so large it can’t be swallowed
and somewhere
a woman drops her wedding ring.

Here is late August.

Our petal limbs are light with sleep, we are pressed between blankets.
Sleep’s lids part briefly and
you emerge, pulling me towards you.

Noon holds us in a dry embrace.

Whether we are two, half asleep, or two halves sleeping
it’s hard to tell.

This is August’s agenda: directionless
it expands like patchwork, urging us to sleep on.
We pour deep breaths back and forth between us like
sand between two cups
measuring nothing
but perhaps the speed of
linen turning crisp in the sun.

Layer by layer
you unsleep me.