The Thin Line

Threnody of sleep,
the irony of the mine-field.
I expect sanctity this time:
whisper of a man in a window,
sheets into explicit music.
I follow the swimming serene,
but he is a dirty knife twisting.
He opens the window -
My eyes adjust to his fall.
In this, we want to call out,
breathe space, discard land.
Instead, I rewind film.
I lean in against the glass
and say, "Look up, look up."
Angles and walls, this is
a hollow space, not the journey.
We enter, apostles of doves,
what we will not become.

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"Who wants to understand the poem; Must go to the land of poetry. -- Goethe"