The dishwasher hums; I play piano
and get a little drunk.
The oven is on but I forgot
to start dinner and her shoes
are scattered across the floor, their
shadows changing softly as afternoon
gives way to evening.

This moment is a dream, a muddled perception of what
seems Real. The context no longer matters, I know

so time passes slowly
like a songless spirit shuffling
across vastness
into vastness.

and my hands, not knowing
what to do, keep the time--
a funeral march, while the light
changes and the smell of food
does not emerge from
the kitchen