My shredded fingers find their rest
lying in the depressions of your ribs.
You used to be the insomniac,
but now you sleep through two hours
of my tracing, sliding, & finally lying
at home, my love, in you.

These are the kinder airs,
muttering of lilac & drapes
of muted green, swept
into the stream below,
dancing as if in secret.
To the few hundred famed
impressions of the past,
opaque oils that never
dreamt of dimming browns,
your muses are left untouched
by these hundred years,
still pleading
"come find me,
I am here all the same."

Now you sound more like yourself. I’m stuck in the seventh afternoon between burnt coffee & a migraine. One more heart-stopping hour before I can die by the screen & a frozen pizza. You’re curly & content with never again un-furrowing your brow. It’s trial by combat. It’s an icy collar for the sake of a takeout order. It’s hearing a melody in crashing pots & pans.

Why do you never believe me? Why do you never tell me the truth?

Listen closely, listen well, I love you.

Twenty-four hours have a padlock at their end. Yes, & one lucky keyholder will have the ground removed from beneath her toes. Just one long grip of a pillow with no case & now north is south.

Still the holes in the plaster. Still the wrappers under my bed. Still my hair in your mouth. The walls taste like jasmine & that sour is here to stay.

The moony wood & pine
sigh & bow to create our path,
evenly blank & in love.
Thoughtless as they must be
yet how must they love us
to open their frosty springs,
their fragile, newborn life,
mourning all the while the trodden
leaves & critters of late,
clasped to their muddy bodies.
Last year, the years before,
all crushed & forgotten.

Always they allow us back in,
as if to welcome us home.
We are invited back
to our fragrant roots,
their floral roots,
in love.