hot gravel ground between the
callous pale outlines of my feet,
reaches of your shadow during
the Lille dusk. for the second time
asleep, under one white cotton sheet
window open photographs on your nightstand
illuminated in moon, red glow
of clock numbers. your dreams bridge
the Atlantic. I’m on the black asphalt of I-94
all out of excuses, empty pockets like giving up
telling you of some drifter I saw humming sweetly
to an abandoned gray dog tied to a no parking sign.
a stray wind pushes your dark hair against my face
“when I wake,” you say to me in a whisper,
standing in sweatpants long sleeves pushed up
to the elbow, “you’ll be here, and that
is so weird to think about”

—Eric Huff, Kenosha, WI