I ask if she is still awake because I know
it could start storming any minute,
and I’ve been scolded in the past for having
failed to make her conscious of the rain.
Job listings look like catalogs of different
kinds of rope for us to hang from and the only
real distinction is the comfort while you slowly
fail to breath.
I think the main thing in the way are the ideas
of how it all could turn out wrong, much
like the singer that grows old and then regrets
The alarm clock is the choir of this
church that has become what it dethroned
before we got here, the rituals are mandatory
and the confessions are extracted in our sleep.
The best pretenders are always so happy
to see you, taking up space, while their teeth
scrape past each other’s craters.
They can conjure all the details of the last
time that you talked and how the view
from the top of that tower, in the rose fields,
looked to you like something fallen from above.
I hear roars in distant skies confirming
what I’ve known since the beginning. I wake
her and she smiles past her barely open eyes,
and is surprised that I was able to remember.