in some other life, i can hear you
 breathing: a pale sound like running
fingers through tangled hair. i dreamt
 again of swimming in the quarry 
& surfaced here when you called for me, a voice-only my sleeping self could 
know. now the dapple of the aspen
 respires on the wall & the shades cut 
its song a staff of light. leave me—
that me—in bed with the man
 who said all the sounds for pleasure
 were made with vowels i couldn’t
 hear. keep me instead with this small sun
 that sips at the sky blue hem of our sheets
 then dips & reappears; a drowsy penny 
in the belt of Venus, your neckline nodding
 slow & copper tinted as it bobs against the
grey stained velvet of my car. what a waste
, the groan of the mattress must be
when you dive below my essence & pull
 the night up over our heads. your eyes 
are two moons i float beneath & my lungs 
fill with a hum your hips return. 
it’s sunday—or so you say with both hands
 on my chest—& hot breath is the only hymn
 whose refrain we can recall. and then you 
reach for me like i could’ve been another 
girl. you make me sing without a sound.