motes
the dreams fall, softly, down
across the warm blue tiles -
fragile and mottled,
and touching only where
the rafters do not block them.
they do that,
you know -
lay gently on the kitchen floor, where
you used to sprawl in summer, once
the sun went low enough
that you could bask
without the fear of catching fire.
and if you find them drifting from
the ceiling in the long afternoon,
you might lay down beneath them, too.