We passed through three dreams
before arriving at this one –
a shaded shoreline
with an hysterical sky,
insisting on sunset.
An idea of a storm
slides in from the left.
What we thought was distance
is actually darkness.
The shore-rocks shine white
and the windows signal back,
small tethers.
I tilt my head
and hear a heart-beat song,
an echo of rust,
a clock in a drawer back home.
It must be receding waves.
Forgetting is a kind of silence.
The touch of your arms tells me
I still have the same hands.

Kimberly Kralowec is an attorney and poet whose work has appeared in The Night Heron Barks, Birdland Journal, West Trestle Review and Poetry Midwest. She writes a poetry blog, anapoetics.com, and lives in San Francisco with her husband. She holds an English degree from Pomona College and a law degree from the University of California, Davis.

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