OUT OF TOUCH

Out of touch
after my art tour guide
calls out to us
capturing memory in a fog
from a Vermeer
in a Dutch landscaped year
wishing to avenge myself
from an eerie nightmare
in my new play's dialogue
detached in my own mirror
of light gazing
on the museum's corridor
by "A Girl with a pearl earring"
imprisoning me
in my own back bench
through sleep and dreams
trembling in blue-grey blankets
reaching out to the airy horizon
for a hour's morning shade
covering a  ringed compass
it seems in our own reflection
while my great aunt leans
on the table napkin
drinks her dark coffee
and a French toast's
powdery confection
her nephew murders a croissant
to his own delectation.