you, filling the room of your mouth with earth carefully. you brush the dirt into the center of each flawed little room, humming. there’s a light in the front yard across the street where i cast my long-over moody shadow about the couch, backwards: where she and i slept in our soft vapor and when it was across the room where you placed me as if i were a piece on a table like “all part of the game” that i forgot to think of as you slept beside me, sorry or not sorry i say you’ve grown taller as if sowing eight drops of blood had stirred something within your spine, undamaged and still young cracking in your sleep my jaw told her i dream of some long lost bird and she understood, there in the humming clarity of that first-floor room where we’d never been as if this could all be about me and the condition of light on that first morning: the music which i did not hear the room that i never saw (but wept at all the same) the things you hide from me, even now each photograph is too big for truth and how surprised i find myself at being finished.