The rise and fall:
the sound of your breath
as you go between awake and asleep --

how easily you go
whereas I am left behind,
counting the lights on the ceiling,
the passing cars on our street,
the arguing neighbors,
the imaginary sheep,
the number of times
my hands glide across
my grandmother's threadbare quilt.

Your quiet ins and outs
soon become deeper,
layered --
I imagine tiny men
with little bellows
filling your lungs with color.

I do not notice
my descent into dreaming,
that great transfer
when the black-and-white
becomes technicolor,
when Dorothy lands in Oz
on the ruby slippers of the irrational.

And no yellow brick road
can take me to you now:
we are in different universes
laying parallel to one another
but can't I wish that
wherever you are,
I hope to meet you
at the mise-en-scène

where you wait for me
at the top of the train platform
as I finish the last few words
of the chapter
from the book I've been reading

before walking home together,
leading me out,
into the bright, bracing day?



Copyright © 2015 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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