A Hazy Dream

She steps out, slowly Flowing a languid river

Her dark hair Untied Flows into the night As her skirt— Black and ankle-length— Follows her viscous grace

She delicately smiles at me— Or at herself— At someone

Her eyes— Glazed Like a fishmonger's displays— Stare Through me, Or into me?

I'm not there; She walks to the curb And sits down— Her hair blows In a gentle night breeze Like windchimes Made of silken threads

She watches the time Slip past Like sand in the undertow. She stands And says to me "W—"

I wake up