You wake to the incandescence of cats,
you wake to the unwound rain,
all the dreams you saved lost
in the torrent of the times.
You move amid the song of bones,
structured by their secrets,
a hidden tower of ache and years.
The magic you cast with empty pockets,
the spell unspun from the threads
that dangle and tease fingers.
The clues to creation to worry and to pluck.
Set your face in the mirror,
hide your breath and your scent.
You center your eyes at the end of your story,
the one that is so clean and pleasing.
The empty building, the haunted orchard;
the buried stairs, the graveyard of stars.
Everything settled in the labyrinth of sleep.
A warm shower, the the cold rain.