it's getting easier to slip
through the days
watch weather
eat
drink my coffee
laugh
(out loud)
to speak of dreams
with other ears
and picture being someone else's angel.
it's getting easier to slide
from one sunset to the other
without your hands to keep me solid
(not some straggling fragment
of a blood-red cloud)
and to smile at your mighty grin
two-dimensional and glossy,
glossy grin
but when your voice comes to me
like some broken thing
from a dream
and so tired from weary flight
and so terribly familiar
I race to the floor
of my cutting-room
and find it harder
and harder
to piece you together