Furnish me a ventricle-
a space where I can lurk
to lick your wounds.
The salt and iron and
gasping slap of
love's hot lung.
Just render to me one pore,
mine to have
come, and hear with me
«the soft footfalls of the night».
I'll take you places in my car.
Trace your frame,
if you'll let me.
In slanted walls and orange light,
so many words I want to put around you
scatter like sand.
You stretch and shift around the room-
movements a league from me,
yet I could still chronicle
every morsel of you, every crumb;
could kiss every bone, gathered and pleated.
just to hear you,
to be near you,
orange light
sweeter than the moon.
There you are, blithe and lean, and today
you’ll grab away the banal,
push it away by the stern, and your stern face.
My frantic unravelling of
each of your very dashes,
to know you better.
Your lolling letters fall out to me, clicking and laughing
through the haze, charmingly drafting-
yes of course I want to settle,
and stare at your muddy, sullen angles.
Your eyes are soft, oily black.
Copier of the vast and humbling,
and fraud of the infinite-
do you ever
stare at your own lovely, unyielding face and know that
with your slalom affections,
you can have me point, with a weak finger, at the sky?
I watched you,
piecing your sleep under
the quiet day's walking,
and I carry your smell in my hair.
I built my hours minded in your cues,
constructed calculated minutes
where each sound left a grain, hacked a divot.
Now here you are,
hair and bone and in my hands, and
treading still away.
Roosting blackbirds-
awful counterweights-
a mug, a magazine,
pulling seconds through a train,
stretching interstellar void,
misshaping daylight into something terrible.
You are my waning work and final talk,
my lowest, sweetest, brittle-waking thing,
until the jealous curtain-scratching sun.
Pulsing silver shaking dusk to wrap
your shapes and touch your tired face
with cobweb vigils glancing through the space
from fingertips and lips trace dust to yours.
All our talk unprecioussed into greyscale
leaves, reposed and clinging, never having
dulcet, finite stares to coat your lids and
no more words to weight your cloudy heart.