You have seen the way this hand withdraws before,
the slow move away and fall of silence layering into sand,
sifting down the hours gone to the quiet beneath quiet.
The hand disappears in dead mist, those wild eyes close,
and all you see is the wide blanket of white covering the face,
all going gray to blackening beyond the backward glide.
This room is small enough, but on these nights it grows smaller,
compresses you, its weight pressing breath to near nothing,
and you sleep barely for gasping at this recurring dream.