She comes home in
a signified portion of
night, when sleep
has worn off for the first time
and the second part of
its closing sets in. For him it is
a moment of preeminent
interruption, and a dire worry
about invasion and loss.
The result is a pulling of what may
never come home again,
a shift away from light,
a salvation in the attended body.
He knows he will dream this again
in the second half of his night,
repeating again and again,
turning this address over the unconscious palate
like a bad meal set against the churn of sleep.
But the interruption is never
fatal. And she dials into bed
so tired and blue that the myth of
disruption never really takes hold
in the directions of his mind.
He dreams it all in the second half,
despite this. The dream says to him,
“Love is an interruption.”