Condensation

Morning: I brush crystals from my eyes
and strangeness from my brain. The dream
that lingered with the flavor of surprise—
of who-knows-what, of things-not-as-they-seem—
evaporates at last. I wash my face.
Retreating dark exposes clouds, defines
the edges that give shape to city space:
concrete sidewalks, power poles and lines.

And underneath my heels, the pavement clicks
and shadows swing as I walk past a lamp
like clock-hands slicing hours into ticks.
The bus stop shelter glitters with the damp
and as I shake the dawn rain off my coat
my dream comes back, a hand upon my throat.

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