June 30, 2017

Wrinkled bedsheets
A soft mouth, two
4 a.m. is a soundless
Flat line
That cannot connect
To the magnetic fluttering
Behind her eyelids
Her thighs, he notices,
Are ruled by the moon
And her dreams rest
Of cherub love and gardens
A trickle of light
A trickle of wind
He quietly draws up
A blueprint
A subtle tracing of his
Remaining books
Of the rain-soaked twigs
Cracking over
His broken path
An uncharted urge
For the words
His eyes have yet to invent
For his every turn
At each
Of her slumbering corners

1 comment: