shivered in a thin sober jacket
I wonder why you are not here
again, the sleep alone, the Sisyphus sun.

      every night my closet is dark.
I am filled with the fear of knowing
                  the light again.
of your firecracker heart, your soul
outside you, not afraid to say it.

                say it (again), tell me.
                do you know your own fingers?
                can you speak for the dance they
                took on my shoulder at night
                with nobody watching, can you hide that
                spark flown through my skin?

                        (I am alive with the light of it.
                                     the fear is a valley.
                                     the fear is a wet rock in my throat
                                     the fear is a little death.

I slept in your smile,
there was the hard tap of your fingers
          that could have been my fingers
           that could have set me all free,
           pressing the fear until it hides deep
           between cells of sparked skin,
           lit from an argument of hidden beauties,
           unknowns, you drew the X
           out but did not feel it;
you kept the beauty hidden and you did not feel it.

          so again I am filled with the fear of
          holding the light ignited in my palm,
          casting shadows out like uncertain nets.

                   how full of orange flame you are
                    and green and blue of afternoon sky;
                    a swirled breath kept tight in the center
                    of a pond, a sharp shock, trembling hands
                    leaf-bent on a branch

            the hand hikes over you, a
            quick brush of a lark in the dark bush,
            calling for seeds to bloom, for the
            spring to slip on the branches
            and fall to the ground, slow and
            smooth and emptied pollen;

my hand hikes
over the hill of a shoulder,
the valleys.
and I sing with the pain
of it.

              of the orange of the fire on the
              purple night cloud, lightning
              in an empty field
              the red dust on the palm of  an
              upturned arm, waiting for rain.

                                      I sing with the pain of a
                                      spectator, shivered through
                                      thin sober jacket.

*every night my closet is dark.)