We’re all wrapped together,
All of us in his bed:
The pale strips of sun
Through the blinds,
Hands and fingers,
Him and I, arms
And legs, torsos,
Lips to teeth, all of us.
His voice is a blurred and
Narrow line and then
It widens; my heart closes
And opens as his eyes do.
Could I put my pen
To paper and find
The shape of his mouth
The breath in his lungs
In sprawling,
Lonesome black lines,
In my own distracted fingers?
Or does it take the whole
Of us:
Brightening sun,
His body in mine,
Together to make
Something worthwhile?