In the push and squeeze of a crowd, I’m walking
beside a coat that lets go of my hand—and in an instant
            I’m no longer a satellite, but whirling

through a blur that has no path, no horizon either.
Too short to see ahead, to keep up, even running, I lose
            sight of the coat. No one notices.
           
Is it a zoo? A carnival? An open market?
I have no destination. Even so, I’m getting closer.                                 
            So close, the sparrow takes flight.                                             
           
I must be visible. Once after a dream-tooth fell out,
I was fully exposed. Not nude, but naked.          
            By morning, I still wanted to hide,

like the small-gray that skittered under the fence.
The trouble is one thing bumps into another,
            thoughts like atoms—piano notes
           
gone astray. Dance to them, and I’m always a step
behind the music, straining to catch up.
            No one can teach me rhythm:

you either have it, or you don’t. Practice doesn’t help.
Someone next to me has already slipped away.
            I should try to sleep with my eyes open.