Bacchanal

the morning is suffused with dew, the moon
hangs low. from a distance, it is easy to mistake
the radio for strains of lyre, or at least
that's what i tell myself. i pull the shade low,

close my eyes again. i recede
into the bed, and let the night, already treading
away as if on a track, come back to me:
there were no stars last night,

so when i blinked, strings of lights stood
in for the second take. there were secret words as
you carefully raised your arm to let me turn on the
dancefloor. there was the tentative reach of lilacs

flitting past across the revelers. turn and take a deep breathe.
then exhale, exhale. what mattered was,
hours later, we were still sitting
in the dew in my dream. now my eyes are closed,

as day comes in around the edges of the shade.