The morning mountains are the torn edge of discarded

postcards, destinations of worn through memories. The ache

of new bone growth.

My appetites darken as the sun climbs above your waist. There

is a silhouette to this desire, a hard edge along the knife cutting 

sparks through your hair.

I'll never be closer to your true name than a finger tip on the

surface of a pond. The slightest moment of displacement leaving

no ripple. Fingerprints oscillate, a river begins flowing up my arm.

You can fish with a cormorant garrotted against fulfillment. The

way the gods press their thumbs into our throats to adjust the

frequency of need.

So much of everything is beyond me but I turn to hold the sun's 

unwinding, the flesh of the air tumescent, quickly pink and

writhing. This splendid knot slips into the space of the night

.