i.
the quiet breath of our bodies finishing;;
the end of a flight//
the way you land, at a run,
on a thin strip of rainpipe
sleek&&accurate as a missile shell,
slippery as a buttered loaf of oval bread,
wedge yourself into the rusted hoop of my arms//
caught
like a great trapped bird
white && pristine, with your
throat extended into darkness

i am extracting songs from here;
like long spools of yarn

great bundled wings;;
folded at the joints,
clasped tight at your sides
by the sinewy circle,
twine of colored leaves and
bony elbows;;
bursting out below our hips
in supernova bouquets
of feathers/or fingers

ii.
i have memorised
the erratic constellations
of your freckles.

named each new color of your eyes.

will smooth, forever,
the ruckus of your hairline.

iii.
i will trace fingernail
lines on your back,
temporary red-wire nets
encasing the slick, silverfish of your body,
twisting && slipping along the length of our bed,
which we make anywhere
with the ease
of creatures in comfort.

you are heavy on me,
and i like it.

i have noticed,
in your presence,
the quiet shifting of melting ice,

the buoyancy and revival
of stepped-on grass,

&& the persistence of spring,
even after the weariest greys
of february and march.

i know the exact shift
in your breathing
when you slip silently
into the still pool of sleep,
without disturbing
the surface.

iv.
but it is not your silence that intrigues me.
it is my willingness to follow.

06/24/2005

Author's Note: have i found her,, maybe,

Posted on 06/24/2005
Copyright © 2024 Brynn Dizack