Fiona Perry

We entered their bodies as completely
as ink dropped into water and now we wait.
Only full lunar phases hinder us, producing
glitchy distortions. The bulging of tides
and particles of white light call us
back temporarily. Our real selves pulled
like thread from velvet. We float through
chimney stacks, seep through window frames,
leaking into the sky. But by morning, as always,
we find ourselves capsuled and contained, pushed
back under heavy human eyelids.