Come morning he moves his toes in sleep.
Outside clouds congeal, the window
a rose-tinged trap. You enter softly,
your steps the hush of rubber soles.
On the wall, a round clock blinks
away the seconds like an owl, its voice
sucked through the straw lying across
his bowl of leftover chicken soup.
In time, he will stop waking. We know
this like the pebbles we skipped on
the pond. At that precise moment, we
shall stand, side by side, near his bed.
Our eyes will be dry, as promised,
fingers busy over his body like two blind
figures stooping to read the braille,
his escaping heat in our cupped hands.
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