a quiet expedition

Years and years ago—a memory
veiled beneath a bedsheet
wakes up.

Midnight—
it should be asleep;
yet it peels the webbing from its feet

and steps from its cocoon,
digs those toes, hewn
from cot,

deep in
the seedy, brown rug,
grows trunks, and stretches.

In steady, rhythmic, tidal breaths
it swells across the darkened nest,
resting just before it steps
toward the doorway—"Is it really twelve?"

It frets the hour—the noise—itself,
the beat of soles, its heart, its chest
tightening in the hallway dusk—
the guitar string is plucked;

frequency whole in tune, nascent waves
spill to the adjacent room.
They crash against the walls—the bed—
and shatter,

piecing together beneath the sheets—
between two older bodies—
and drifting back asleep.

Days and days ago—a memory
bubbles to the surface of a cup
like thirst.

Kissing
the drinker's lips, it says,
"It is after twelve."

Piecing himself—inhaling—the drinker
floats toward the bed, sinks in—
expiring.