Backlit by the glow from a small passageway, he kneels into the fog of yellow light, head kissing the carpet. I step around him, respecting his privacy, when the mat becomes not prayer rug but builder’s tool, a black piece of tarmac, laid down before the bank so he could peer close, fix the dead motion sensor so that people with money could be seen, all doors opening for them.
I am beginning to think about the middle, and how we should behave in it. When I say you held me closer than clouds hold birds you tell me it was coincidence we slept at all. Of course I want it to stop. I dream every night of a man with the head of a man and the body of a scary sea creature. I dream the man is lost so I carry him home. Of course I mistake water for home and home for water but at least, I try.