Poetry

In shreds,
the day has passed.
At night, I will touch;
the unasked questions.
 
You were sending, the
soap bubbles, like
swans carrying the messages.
 
The weather changes. A
fantasy becomes real.
The moon has missed the night.
 
Like the Morse code, there was
a flurry of taps, the
blank paper flies for a rite.
 
It is dawn, breasted and melting.