Incompletion

Tomorrow it will be gone–
this false night,
this held breath–
we are undreamed.

Light falls scattered
without gravity,
a sliver of reflected time–
tomorrow it will be gone,

out there towards never.
It resembles matter,
although it has no form–
this false night,

pure, unbroken–
(that’s what I imagine–
healed and levitating into always)
This held breath—

it neither comes nor goes.
Listening, it does not reply–
(we’ve lost our knowledge of sleep)–
we are undreamed.

For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.  Another mysterious landscape.

Another cascade poem.