And not just the weeping,
as with Mrs. Dalloway's trembling flowers,
but it is about the tears returning to their source,
as if travelling through tiny root veins
up the backbone of a great tree,
a journey enlightening us about the nature of liquids,
their symbiosis with the air that we breathe in sleep –
all of these are signs of feeling for handholds through time,
of words others speak at such times into morning’s
grey beard of light, between night and dawn,
while like theatre mice they were hugging and cheering
for life, and you find yourself between an inward looking self
and another that you share with the one next to you
in a cocoon of meanings between two bodies
through which, even while dreaming,
the sap of all thoughts moves