my left shoulder
is the swing
from your dream

you sleep in and miss
the morning silence of old men
who drink coffee on terraces

the high-rise that obscures
the sun
or we hide from it

feet
uncovered are hugging
in the bottom of the bed

the window wide open
swallowed rag sky
torn from
happiness counted to ten

in the corner
a spider, shipwrecked,
stitching plans
for a new home

ours is
a house for migratory birds

we are
boats of paper in a middle of a flood
longing for ground