i think i dreamed you


television static-
her camera has seen god
and has heard the
sounds of winter in july:

my silence breathes you
like whispers in your sleep.

the blues and purples are
as infinite as one last
cigarette on the ocean,
an orange on a dead
or dying tree they named light,
and we wait there for
nothing, and nothing fails
to come, like a stone path
or a nostalgic box of photographs,
lost in space, found in time’s
closed eyes.