how many limbs are left on us?
am i holding the bed, or holding the peace
for the eighteenth-hundred time?
we bury     down
and grow up     like a tree     **** the tree.
i seek out arches of disparity; burning a space
in which only we can breathe:
i latch to each sigh that escapes from you.

and     i swell up     at the thought
of losing you

     all over again.