— for Pris

Across that geography
of rumpled sheets
I reached for you,
certain as any Columbus,
and just as confused by night.
I heard you breathing;
every dream led me to this;
but the bed pretended
other histories — lost
continents, sunken
treasures, deep caves of forgetting
pulling me down.
I waited for morning,
like some wait for Atlantis.
I waited for you to rise.