A hand in the dark
moves over my hand,
waking life from the
abyss of sleep.

Some tender wave rises
from the grid of streets and fences,
a tightrope walk between
thought and breath.

The cage doors are open to the wind.
Underground wires sit white hot with electricity.
Rainwater silently floods the house,
carrying with it our pencils and rulers.

Our dams are dreams,
we shake with fear at the mountain rivers
surging inside ourselves.