we are the lingering corners

beneath the pine wood and myrrh,

the summer pictures and

scraps of discarded dreams, arms tired

from smithing the friendships as they fray

and make unnameable ends, lying still

like the flickers of grasshopper fingers over the keys

whispering against trust

we are weakening at the knees

the spine bends at the neck

craning forward into the screen,

listening to the slow drip of electrons in the afternoon quiet and

the vibrations from the air conditioner’s rusting mouth.

the twilight creeps in with the gold dust, the broken handles of windows

candle bulbs in towers, crossed by the weakening dark and purple

the low shadows and the breath of the city in cotton

we hear the clapping of shoes and ice cream buds

strapped into waffle petals, the ringing of the evening star, loudest

in the dimness, the matchbox beds and the cat’s eye, opening

welcome mats of concrete like open graves.

the night deadens,

the hands curl

and the chest seeks warmth

the eyelash weakens against the thralls of sleep,

there’s an inching at the neck, strung tight by the shoulderblades

struggling to give in to fatigue,

we linger in the cold of the air, the scratching at the stoop’s foot

there is red on the mouths

fires in the bodies

and restlessness in the fingers rolling up the thighs

stalling the knees

the snails twining in her tongue’s branches

our rust bends and creases,

darkening on the limestone fingernails,

sun and moonlight interchanging,

wrapping us around one another and

sliding beneath the sheets—risking the ivory whites

and the seas of turquoise

it is a slimming of the hips and the mouths widening

fitting the lips to the teeth

and eyes to the socket ceilings

the writhing stretch

the lengthening of the circuits

a tightening of the ribs and arching spines

the frothing of sleep, a rising

and a cautious placement of feet on the hard wood floor.

our cracks are just shower steam and lightness,

sips of juices and the intake of crinkling air

and the first cries of daylight’s drops

the opening is fluid, we’re driving into the open mists

deeper into the scalds, the trickles

and the bend of toes into dove soap and plaster,

it’s like heat into the veins,

soaked in by leather palms and the curling hairs

the day runs about the ankles

flitting in the breaking light,

into the ease down the stairwells and the stretching cords

it is the calmness in the shuffle of feet

a broil in the first inhale of the waiting moments

the day rolls in like a calm tide

stealing our sand

coveting the glassiness, slickening the mind’s shore

leaving behind the sandcastle dirges

and casting us out

into love’s slow, dark waters.


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