Day 4: The Music of the Spheres

The Music of the Spheres

you sleep,
your back cut by the lime
of your dress,
your left shoulder rising
with your breath,
my breath, mixing with
the air-conditioning.

the last shuttle breaks though the clouds,
shooting straight towards the heavens
that we see only fleetingly in dreams.

I believe in the glory of small things;
the ice clinking & melting in the glass;
the sky bisected & complete through the blinds;
the book hidden & waiting in the shop -
(I believe in you).