Every time I wash my
hands a moth flies toward
the ceiling. Where
there's a rope
door will close. We'll climb
down plaster walls
and look across a blank room.
I have a drawer for you.
I could stare
indefinitely ending numb friction
glance, lights of the city. I guess
there's a chance I'll see
the mountain we're sitting on.
Wash a portion of night
with simple murmur, the
porch is difficult place.
Two ways to name it:
cracked transistor or chokehold,
where it's all a linden shift,
a winglike bract with
door still trying to close.
We could swim. In
a hotel pool. Streams
upstate. I will sleep
light of your back. If
a train is coming we
will take it.
I'm reading to you while you sleep.
We are both afoot. I listen
to your hair wander across the pillow.
I know I'm made of sand.
We can only see yesterday as
how we see it. Ballerina, string
cheese, if I burned your foot.
We are artifacts of the artifacts we read.
I can't help but hold your arm.
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