Wrist Deep

Cold Water

When the first silver of morning
slips between the space on the sill
and the lower lips of the curtains

and the slow beginning of an owl’s coo
start thrumming through the walls,

having not slept, I place my sadness
in the form of old records
under a new needle and sigh

for the only time your dark hair
has ever dragged across my eyes
like a vast cold river over stones
is during my deepest of deep dreams.