I lie in the dream of your breath. Your presence
is less defensive than your voice. Slipping between
softening weapons, I dissolve like glycerin
under your tongue. Waiting beneath constellations
with the strings pulled out, I stumble
on lost connections and phone jacks writing
darkness on the night.

The sun has not risen above the cradle
of the mountain. The light is unsure and
I am grateful for the shadow’s noise. Repeat to
me the chemistry of leaving, the misplaced
enzymes, and electrons free to rot.

The pieces of you left in me will
not fester into pearls; there is no luminous
wound burning. I’m sure a saint could make something
of this. I’m sure I could disguise myself.
The fear is you will find a god; the hope
is you will be able to pry those fingers
from your throat.




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