Someone will cross, kiss as if it
were rain and tough stone as if
it were love,
and all futures stir, taking prescience
away making all wounds dumb
in foretelling, time taken like an orphaned
child from abandon
the frivol of rescue is the promise
of its danger
making nights stranger than they were the
first time, room made bare and wider again
with its shy deceit of furtive silence
you, conversing in that moment of sleep's ravenings
the terror of its lightness: the frothing sea reaching for salt, circling the toe for words
left in tongue's misery, clasped and irretrievable like the vanity of naked principle
rushing like tides in between
bone-spaces;
