consciousness

not so much a stream but

a torrent, discontinuously melded

by glacial tides, angled emotions;

not a new way of seeing, exactly,

but my own voice, legible.

my own small fingers,

connecting pad to roughened nail

with each of your splayed ones,

flower petals pushed closed

by a hailstorm of denials,

a firm refusal in the meeting

of eyes.

cobalt and gray,

sea-colored glass

through which you view

the dreams you thought

abandoned you at puberty;

awake but almost…

there.  The instant slips

between closing knuckles,

eluding coherence, dandelion seeds

shooed out by puffed cheeks

to sprout on the wind.

And you thought it was over.