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.