If Never the Why then at Least the How
This dawn, if a stranger was to stand outside our house, the panes would glow as stamps, par avion. Windows will settle by noon but now, early on, they wish for sex straight out of sleep. A cupola of wild geese launches a mansion. You sleep turned from me, a pang of light on your forehead. Too jealous for coherence, we spoke last night in interjections, every tooled puncture of your belt slid past what I can’t accept from a blue morning, as a hand finds silver lines tense at the back of a knee. Then, what I can accept. The amazing thing about skin, that it’s continuous.