Adrift

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.