it's only in the dark
that i believe i can move like a silken cloth
buffing the silver moonlight
and polishing the dream i hold in my hands.

threads of light, strained through my palms,
float in the air.

dawn is a mile off to the east.
when my house gets there,
a hard edge of fire
cuts the night's restraint

and my dream thrashes
in my grasp like a moth, then vaporizes,

leaving my hands flecked with moon-dust