As night glooms over, slowly
in the bed we rock to sleep,
unmoored, a craft dislodged,
riding the ripples out to sea.
Rain ticks the windows, roof
and walls, a misty drizzle.
Fog comes down
and hovers in the wood
like thinking without words.
We lean into the unspecific
dark, exhausted by the
to-and-fro of accusation.
You said one thing and I
another: neither of us lied,
But language is a wide net cast
at random in the sharpest seas.
The quiver of our catch
is still. We drift now,
tongueless, listing as the rain
sleeks down our house, as
blear November nuzzles us
asleep. We sleep to dream.
We dream to meet the images
that tell and tell again,
to waken into clarity
and names, the speech that
binds us, brings us safely
into dry dock, dawn.