Reading Between the Lines
While you were sleeping the chair, perhaps
dreaming of an ageless character
from the unfinished novel in your lap,
the sunlight through the window lit your hair
surrounding your face in a brilliant halo.
Your wrinkles, like a trail of sparrow’s feet
left in the snow, were clear enough to follow
back to the promises of our first date.
The sunlight cast a final flash of color.
A shadow entered the room, began to rise,
seemed pulled up over your face like a cover,
blanketing your chin, your lips, your eyes.
The I, too, slept and dreamed of heroines
whose timeless faces I’ve forgotten since.
Michael T. Young
2001; originally printed in Rattapallax.
Reprinted by permission of the author.