Night lights form shadows around drawer pulls,
finely sanded, soft gray on black, the slats of
the stool-backs appear as midnight staffs of music
on the tile floor, cold and white, talcum grout lines
travel to infinity down the hall, without promise
to converge, run parallel to my mind in flight,
low to the ground, lucid rarely awake, but
in dreams I slide underfoot, slip away, somewhere
inside the static

Chagall 2019