When I stand before the lamp, my shadow fills the wall, no body, just a loose and unclaimed shape spreading to the door that is already opened. You, asleep, do not see this self-half covering you, the green potted plant clawing at it. Early this morning, we spoke of alchemy, the ache to find solution, the right elements to combine, anything to make the right color— color what designates impossibility or miracle: char-grey to hot-golden; your white of sleep and my green Nasturtium leaves, floating circles of plant I snap from their stems. There are bird wings, tucked and diving, dead seagull by the road, your shadow in dream, and mine passing over you, back and forth in a pace like racing, like waiting, watching to see if I hit too hard, to see when you'll come to, raise your head again.