Nightmare Songs: 2

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2.

The heavy spice breaking over breakfast.
No smoke here, much less chimneys.
We are an echo of the ocean returning to ourselves,
unless we are muffled footsteps in a hallway.
Should we count these like our breaths? Our hours?
A heavy chain going out over the edge of the boat,
at its end the anchor that will stay us in the drift.
Bright rain in the afternoon, like sand,
is a contradiction of weather—
it suggests that gravity might be temporary.
It could validate the stories of those who took flight,
however momentarily, from earth and perched
at the peaks of their roofs.
We crowed up at them mockingly
and our voices came back again false.