She steps out, slowly
Flowing a languid river
Her dark hair
Untied
Flows into the night
As her skirt—
Black and ankle-length—
Follows her viscous grace
She delicately
smiles at me—
Or at herself—
At someone
Her eyes—
Glazed
Like a fishmonger's displays—
Stare
Through me,
Or into me?
I'm not there;
She walks to the curb
And sits down—
Her hair blows
In a gentle night breeze
Like windchimes
Made of silken thread
She watches the time
Slip past
Like sand in the undertow.
She stands
And says to me
"Wh—"
I wake up