Not a word
      Glass come to me
      I have my hands on the table
      Palm face down, looking at the colors of my fingers
      And jump tear jump tear
      Bounce, and cold pillows
      Soft sleep with the ceiling fan wobbling on exposed wires that are the only thing left holding it to the ceiling
      And I move like a ghost through the halls
      And dance laying down
      With ghosts on either side of me
      Arms crossed across their bodies
      Holding staffs and we all sleep like Egyptians
      The ghosts and I
      I turn and they turn
      And I count the minutes till the dawn arrives
      And I watch the angels knowing I am not an angel
      And I dance lying down not moving