I
Like animas of January mornings,
we nestled in green grass tunnels as husband and wife,
virgins to the gardens underground.
I remember the curves of your lips;
how I watched dust needle through
your breath like a frayed sonata
and how I swallowed my cheeks, inspired.
We spoke of wanderlust
and forgot the mornings
like strangers with novel coats,
sleeping in silent reveries
of quiet windows.
Sometimes I loved
when you said my name in gargles
and yellow smiles,
stretching over that unbearable dawn
like seagulls at marble seas,
dying their feathers dark and crimson.
II
You once felt my breasts
with your swollen fingers as we walked
the railroads like ghosts,
feeding our lily-white bellies
with iron-breath and silver dreams.
The jellies of our necks would sway
in the winter afternoons like thin dogs;
our eyes, crystallized with gloss
and steam from our chests.
III
We never played chess or Chinese checkers,
nor did we ever wear scarves or gloves.
We were always naked
and sometimes we would leave home
with our chins covered in maple syrup
for the birds to gnaw
and grow a golden nest in our jaws.
In secret we knelt below the sun
like a wispy web of hope
as we reached across the beds of Évora,
darting after foxes and snow rabbits.
We mummed our conversations
from sunrise to sundown
with chattering teeth,
chiseling deathbeds for you and I,
remembering that tomorrow will be a world of sounds.
















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