Communion

Come,

please come along,

I am racing back to sleep,

far from the ghost-drenched circles

that streetlights pour across the sidewalks.

Those orange islands will expand with the dawn’s light

until they reunite and blanket the road, the campus, and distant home.

For now, we lie touching in spots, cut from communion and distraction

by the margins of night swelling between the windows.

The spent burst of twilight retreats into streaks.

The rhythms of our breathing

slow down and

diverge

in

approach

of the border,

the boundary between

wakefulness and dreamless sleep

that hides from sight like the bridge between eyes.

Each as an eye, we cannot glimpse each other over that space,

but our distance lets us sense the depth that yawns between us and our object.