A Hazy Dream

She steps out, slowly
Flowing a languid river
Her dark hair
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—
Like a fishmonger's displays—
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

I wake up

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