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Silver moon, high in the sky,
casts its quiet lattice on my wall
a geometry of light and longing.

There, in the room, a table breathes.
A bottle stands upon it,
its shadow sharper than the glass.
Thirst stirs or memory does
and I reach for what I think is real.

But the bottle wavers,
its neck dissolving into thought.
The glass beside it glimmers,
filled with the idea of water.
Perhaps it was my wanting
that shaped their forms from dark.

The room holds its breath.
Wood becomes mist,
light becomes liquid.

Shadowland,
you patient magician,
you bend reality through the keyhole
and pour illusion into my hands.
I drink and wake
still thirsty.