Your breath is heavy with dream.
The night is dying
and morning is just mist
that spreads its vaporous fears
from a blur of escape.

How we cross frontiers
so easily that we mistake
heaven for a blue sky.

Out of a dream
the face in every mirror
seems as foreign as
the last pages of an unread novel.

The road back
tries to remember itself
by the steps we take from
one alteration to another.

And clouds stay silent
about their loss enflamed morning,
never meeting us with
memories of water
except when we have already
become something else.