This is the trouble with language.
It moves with borrowed light. Lingers
between
lovers
sky
and bird
a woman’s body and
your mouth.
It is a thing
that grows
as the light moves.
Follows
the revolutions
of the sun.
Is consumed
by the appetites
of the soil.
I list all of the men I have loved. Those who have left me and
all the rest. And as I collapse into a sleep that is not
I reach
for your
shoulder
as you move
to your side of the bed. I am
bathing
in a
pool
of salt.
My
hollowed
body
now
overflowing with song.