rainstorm in a teaspoon of the dark.
When the night's pipette
sips me
from this grey air
I sleep in a white shroud,
pulling dreams,
flickering like doves,
from beneath my black cloak.
Underneath the cloud
I fall before the monotonous comfort
of the rain.
The teaspoon stirs,
dissolves me into darkness,
and the milk of dreams is clouded
by the noise.