A degree below freezing. A wandering art.
A part apart.
The water moves a little between shores and remains a dark mirror. A silver thread.
A warm bed refused on account of poetry, no matter how shitty.
We read carefully into the night and realize we are surfacing as from depths we only partially understood we were plunging through.
And how do you end your sentences and how do you begin. Premises, promises, primroses.
Stars flicker in the dawning sky then disappear. Horses circling the paddock, hungry.
In the late seventies Diana Monforte died on an icy road in pure sunlight in the faraway Alps and my heart has been oddly on edge ever since.
Gravel on her tongue, her throat a salty mess inside of which a song grows.
I can see you in the distance, readying yourself for the hard prayer our living together requires.
Poses, postures. Possibilities, playthings.
Giving me head at three a.m. because I can't sleep because the dead insist on homesteading in my dreams, and water thunders a mere wall way, and is this a way love and sex intertwine at a late stage of the marriage, helpfully, is it.
What gets better is what passes.