Caravans of wind, a cast-over
starlessness. Is the brunt
of taking leave mine,
whole nights vanishing again
into the crass dailyness of
morning.
Ends-of-summers ends-of-
towns. You pull
back into the truce you’ve
made with yourself.
Four shades of white.
Never time for the precision in
limbs, languor, the slower
charge where your eyes
release into mine to feel
the slight weight and
shift. Ground
in spring and its dark
pressure of flowers.
Instead the sudden fever-
mark on my cheek,
a sharp heat that
flies from your
palm as you press it
for a second where my
heart under skin is. Hive-in-
ivory. Is it this traction,
is it the rampant property-of-
night we share and see,
at the gravesides every day
as we are talking with someone or
sitting or just staring
out. Water in the color of
daylight. Whose are you
in that intense and separate
ache if not mine.
