Shadow Director
My shadow eavesdrops her window.
She combs summer’s dust
from her hair, a sudden shower
of static silver. I form lips
with my hands and kiss
her morning eyes silently.
From distance my hands
are fluid rivers, free from ice
of nerves of nearness.
Ghostly silk overpaints
her contours in a dance I lead
to the tune of silver bells
of morning dew. I am director
of a solo dream where the lead actress
does not know her part.
I will kiss her when the credits roll.
