Michael Z Cheng
Sep 3, 2018 · 1 min read

Her fever dreams hang a hair

over the bedside -and down, over

the white linen skirt, gazing into that

gap -that place,

where her thoughts tend to hide.


And when soft breezes wake her briefly,

between new conversations,

with an old friend,

maybe she sighs that the sun still lingers,

or that the icebox is so far away

down the hall,

across the steps of cool tile,

next to the door -to the garden,

humming its favorite tune.