the thunder of
a small bird.

a poem grows shadows
and moonscapes,

the moon,
withered sapphires,
undone,
her open windows
a thread of bright
light.

with two flat thumbs
I am trying  
to work  
a couple of knots
out of your shoulder blade
one not is you  
one definitely not is me
yet I'm tracing
warm circles
kneading  
the cut of  your spine
needing
the cut of your spine!
should I?
should I  
be kneading
the  distance  
between us thin ?
I could complete
this instant massage
by simply needing  

*the scent of your skin