Because there is nothing in the sky
we are pressed hard to the ground.

Strange that this absence should flatten our breath
and require of every gesture the fire of rebellion.

We pass each other without pause or recognition,
intent on something unreachable and private.

I catch myself yielding
to flows that don't intersect with mine,

waking snagged on the hook of your passing, 
my hand cradling the latch of the brilliant door.