I would’ve lived with you then
in a house with swollen eaves
to hear the swallow by river of rain
and your voice through hollowed walls.
And in the house, afternoons
hug spider web corners, there is an art
to the folding in of things.
You look so small, asleep on the ticking.
On the wall — a pietà.
I touched your face in sleep
and it became my face.
I found the suture, loosened the stitching,
a mother-of-pearl
asleep on your tongue,
I laughed.
You write a line, burn it
and in the brief light there is
no reflection in your eyes,
only greedy darkness folding.
