Love infects me with the muscular superstition that one body can move through the dreams of another –fully aware of where they are.

he said,
a woman believing in beauty without self-concern is a rugged phenomenon – I am territorial;
I am the one who can walk on your words and take flight into your watery dusk, so take care in
your speech - it becomes a path to wherever I wish to go in you.

There’s an awful tension - a soma-response from knobbed heel bone to the glowing bowl of my hips -
unearthed and awash in hush; Some things persist – something still grows in the overworked fields
- we mustn’t notice or name it – it will learn to be nurtured by blazing dust clouds to someday
cast its own shadow
where I will sleep in silent return.

Still he arrived through a slip of the tongue – an under breath utterance from slumber – perhaps just
the intonation of a sigh – and he uses the same path when he leaves me. I don’t weep in
a rhythm- slip- knot that might pull the thrum of another departure
into my repertoire of memory - already forgotten like
so many dreams. I haven't cried since the dry stream beds collected to request my authentic contribution.
Not since then, but I do still feel those far away waters rising; pushing inside my chest,
bending my sternum open like a loaded bow filled with fiercely gentle, humble arrows. I sleep
beneath a wooden ladder at a slow angle toward heaven - the point of contact made
between my bare skin of sleep and its shadow – the sound made in that touch point
– there – exacting – complete.