Around midafternoon, our dreams slip out to have a walk around.

They slough off the brightness of day, cloud our vision

and take our pulses. They thumb through all our notebooks.

They read our latest emails. They eat our snacks and they know better

than to wake us in our seats. They grin toothily in shadows,

pinching us, making sure.

Occasionally rogue dreams pass from one coworker

to the other, slide hands along our human shoulders,

whisper that we relax.

                                    They pull pads

out of purses, condoms out of wallets. They read

our rent checks, laugh, and suck the ink

from our cracked hands.

                                       Then, with their long nails,

they trace the crow’s feet beside our eyes,

noting age, fatigue, the brittleness of skin,

and swapping partners, enter us again

through eyes and nose and name.

                                They charge the air with shades:

they are the hazy knowledge marked

by you, the air, and me

as we lift our heads     and wake.