Sour scurrying in the ocean's discontent,
Drinking down prides poison,
between sheets of malleable memoria,
I can feel a distraught woman.
She seeks a kind of sleep that death won't provide.
Face leaking, hands tremble to no cold,
stiff in regret, toughened by yesterdays cold shoulder.
Gently she rises to turn off the ring that sounds off and on
in her forced solitude.
The eyes open and see the light through the dim door,
as he brings her a glass.
For you, he says, to wash it down.
For us, to fill again with that which will not be drained.
The light gets bigger and the cold is a cowardly begger asking for change,
but it is too late.
By the hand, we lift, naked and sure, out the dim,
to the stairs, shift reverse, neutral, drive me to you.
The sun is setting on yesterday, till tomorrow when
we can claim it for ourselves.