Impressions

The cruelty of church bells
Ringing; of matching white aprons stained
Ash-brown with cake. The vision
Of the day-to-day, of white picket
Fences and TV remotes gone
Haywire, lost in the sofa, and only
Your face, only the arresting
Tremble of your laughter
To save us all.

It was supposed to be like this:
Early sun-lit mornings, tangled
Limbs, eye on eye, speaking
With our tongues and nails.

Now I linger on the precipice
Of an imagination too detailed
To have been a dream, a mere
Dream, a delusion shared by
Our psyche, so physical and vivid,
One which existed until it
Didn't, and I am left licking
At the crumbs, grasping at the frills,
Prying at the clouds mocking
My stillness with the continuity
Of time.