How They Sleep
by Farah Marklevits
She sleep-walks to set fire to furniture:
curtains, chairs, their bed. He runs in his head,
in a city he builds new each night, crowded
with impossible architecture. Into his ear
she climbs to burn it down. Mornings, he tells
all his dreaming made, but nothing of her matches.
Their heads are tuned to different pitches
like glasses of water. His dreaming mind, a bell,
a city of bells opening into song,
sound rippling through him, bouyant and showy.
Her head pitches under one note too low
to hear, in a white city where the white cars lunge
against a white sky under the white sun,
where she sinks each night with bleached mouth and tongue.