Matt Hotham '03

Sands slip between usin the Hour Glass -your head finds my shoulderas our feet reach the door.

Waking up Thursday morning,mouth dry and smoky, expecting to find my head smashed and exposed on the pillow,I am still light -floating and trippingon my touch and go landings.

Last night through the treesthe stars blinked out one by onewinking at you, at me.

Now, facing cold showerand growling sky,I want to fall into my mattress -find moonless night inside.