The night doesn't move.
Nothing happens, the sleeper sleeps
and is elsewhere,
till gauze darkness is breathed aside
and a cloudy dark coheres.
Cold air and light rain
move over the river, easing themselves
into the sleeper's mind.
Trees rustle and water drips,
displacing an absence
until fingerips tap on glass.
My body has leaped out of bed;
I – who else? – am running to the door
where streetlight flows through liquid, frosted glass
around the swaying shadow of a tree.
Twigs and leaves stream and shift.
In silhouette, they are the flung shapes
of hair and cloth, blown against
her undreamed bones and flesh:
the toss of her head, her beckoning limb.