A floral night shirt, the way she coughed
Into her fist, the oscillating fan
That pushed the air across a sweating mattress,
Or just the sound of her there fast asleep.
I won't remember all the abstract ways
The light that snuck between the bending blinds
Had seemed to dance with the dust of the room
And slide a subtle square across the wall.
It's jumbled in my memory. She had dreamt
About a turtle or another girl
While I slept soundly in the awful grammar
Of a world refusing to make sense;
A caustic parade of obnoxious suffering
That's punctuated by delicate bliss.
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