You make your overtures to the dark,
taunting the floor with a broad
brush of a foot. The wood, invisible,
tenses beneath your heel.
With one movement, your body lifts
into a splash of air. Behind you,
in rumples, the sheets seem voile
and as quiet as ectoplasm.
Shapes and angles applaud you,
but you are deaf, testing instead
for the depths and shallows. You pick
your way like a white lie.
Turning, a wobbly ballerina on the
rim of a porcelain saucer, you watch
the way that your lover sleeps.
You chart her breath,
and gaze at the gauze of her face,
her long hair tinkering a pillow,
her lost hand. You stand, and make
overtures out of her stillness.