What Tongues Hold
Somewhere else a woman wakes,
Stands in her window. A lover 
snores on, dreaming of sheep
who are dreaming of him.
It gets a bit confusing. 
There is a lot of bleating. 
She swallows light with her mouth,
spits out the day’s repetition. 
Its reflection—

like fire in a glass.

Some prayers—when spoken—shatter,
bring torrents of water.
Salt, sweat and spittle hold onto the man
and his pillow. He could be a shepherd,
if only he knew how to wrangle wool
back from his dreams.

He has never been lost outside of a city.

The woman turns, now, to him—
forgetting the other half of the world is asleep.
It is only through knowing the day that she can stand 
there without screaming back the night, 
without falling like strands of thin hair,
out the window 
and onto the rising street.

She whispers to herself,
	They are thirsty. Drinking tears.

Gnats swarm in thin black clouds across the burning lawn.

	On his half of the world it is night now.

Her eyes well and dissolve.

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