In the end, you were just asleep,
your breath too slow to see
with the naked eye, a half-remembered
riff from a song I hadn’t heard
in decades. I could close
the door, move farther
into the house, look under beds
for criminals, raid the fridge.
Is it safe to say the hammer
needs the nail? I find you—
the shell to my hermit crab,
the cistern to my bucket.
It should never be possible
to ration air, but just in case
I’ve ordered some blueprints
for tanks from the Internet.
We can put them behind
the solar panels whose wiring
goes fuzzy come tornado season.
There is always something
to be said for necessary
redundancy. Too much, maybe.
I’ll blow this candle out.
I wonder if your dreams are lucid.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent and forthcoming work in Chiron Review, Guide to Kulchur, and Third Wednesday, among others.