the cupboards empty

open, close

open, close, open

close

a half sweep out of Alamance
spool me crooked 'round her waist

close, open

close, open, close,

open

I can feel her
bristling, bruising under me
I need it, need her,
need her good to extend to me

open, close

I hold her close
too close
too tightly

wringing cloth
of praise

where can I touch
what gap can I bridge

open, close
close, open

so I'll be an off-branch from her
so closely synonymous
to be held in the same breath

let me in
let me melt into her

until there is no part of me left to drive out

the cupboards empty

open, close

open, close, open, close

open

scared to fall,
but more scared
of never flying,
so i sit at the edge
and wait.

beg
beneath the shoulder blades

if this touch is nothing more than
lonely synapse
and dopamine

rushing to embrace kin

or run your hand through her hair
as if your fingertips are magnets,
and all her thoughts follow along

if such a small thing

in the midst of celestial bodies
each on their slow decline
interfering, colliding in shadow

would turn us all into a lie

it is a good one

and I will tell it

it was brief —

but as I walked, the path opened
like a mouth
as if smiling

and a bowerbird,
with its nested mess of sticks and feathers
and berries and bottle caps,

crouching under the teeth of the forest,
was waiting for me

and though I do like the dream of love,
I always wake