Sleep. Dream in music. Breathe it like a sea
you’ve grown the gills for. Dance it like the fire-
you’ve salamander skin. It is desire
it’s hunger’s bite, the ache of memory,

It is requital, food, myrrh-smelling balm.
Call and response; it’s numbers as they dance,
dance as equation. It is wakeful trance
and deadly hurt that brings consoling charm.

You cannot know awake, can only try
to reach those notes and hold them. There’s a grief
in waking – the bright dawn’s a cunning thief
takes music back. You feel for it. You cry

out for what’s stolen. You do not belong
to waking life, yet are consoled by song.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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