I studied my shadow's sapient subterfuge
as she sequestered in a selenic delight,
somewhere I've never gone, in the dead of the night—
though I wished that I might.
Her swasivious sweven was fleeting and false
as she distracted me from my supine routines,
in a fickle frisson of Freud's wish-fulfilling dreams—
she is not what she seems.
I wonder where tomorrow takes my shadow, and
why can't I too show the silence that she displays,
and if I stray from the sun can I go away—
can I leave with the day?