contingency is nothing.
letters lounge passively on the table;
each day innate in its persistent record
that plays at the foot of whatever bed she
happens to be sleeping.
and if it is not her aridity
it is for another grain of dust to drop
that she is waiting.
a return flight in the fog; she waits
for the silent tears internal
that excite her anonymity. decides on
still gates of city buses; smiles that dust has,
for a moment, swept the streets of their intention.
at dusk she wills herself to be waiting still,
between afternoons, as if sleep could wash words from
her memory like the water that escapes between stones
on a slow, easy morning.
she dreams her dreams these dreams