All those trucks going up the hill

Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.

--Ludwig Wittgenstein

Fingers

I couldn't smell anymore
walking through wet
flowers I've kept this in
tact for you. How sodden
did we get in a block?

I don't smell
the sleepy vernacular
or white noise, dusk, dreams.
Monsoon if you like, black
square on my wrist, my
soft back collapses, back
into a smell I can't feel
the liquid on your toes.

Beneath the toenail
there's an atmospheric crunch,
a finger painting in my ear
an almost salt and I've heard
backgammon's not all that hard, just dots.

Pen and ink and your glasses
were a little too big but
I like the way my eyes
know you can see me.

We're walking along the side
of a mountain, black
rattlesnake, ferns and far
on the rock we sat, warm, wet. I have
a hold for you, handing out
a wrist's tissue. On the plane
we will crouch and hum
and there's a midway
taffeta of flights slits
us there until there's
a fish on my nightstand,
a spot beside, rests,
I have a sky for you.