Unsure if I can write to you.
Sorry I was not there, when the dash ran out.
You appeared to me in a dream, yourself but sharper.
It was the voice
emerging from the mouth.
Does it whine, where you are? I’m hard of hearing. I’m spinal.
The monochrome of your hair.
In the story of the gray owl, we all saw it flying around for a few days, body of a ghost
in the daytime. That’s the story
version. That’s the version I remember.
In the long version, the end comes as a relief. To who?
Thinking of namesakes. Foliage.
At the boundaries. In the kitchen.
Having made all the beds. Having already gotten dressed
I’m waiting at the boundary line.
In a dream, in a dream, in a photo of a dream.