we're breathing into each other—
our two bodies, spooning and forking.
i think of the math that enters this—
the air, the mattress,
of the geology contained in this moment—
earth’s crust, sound’s waves.
i inhale inside our space to astronomize
that the freckles on your spine are planets colliding.
do you recognize my language?
yes, but you misread the text
while the diaphanous morning light
performs card tricks on the ceiling.
they tell me a story
while we move to the music
of doors shutting,
televisions in other rooms.
as i name each gesture,
identify each
flick of body,
in this poem i’ll write us a language,
compare you to weather.
i’m kind of a liar;
i’ve forged your signature
all over my body.
Poetry Quarterly, Fall 2010