i.
we picked our way through the october obstacle of rocks

standing half-warm in the irregular rain, I was made small by the
promise of skyscraping trees, of needled leaves, of inexplicable weather

I memorized your asymmetric eyes, the crooked weavings of light through
your tumbled limbs, the muscled pleading of your skin, of my fingers
which laced up your shudders like pigeons flying out of gutters--

quick and sudden, flutter and flight-

along the beach among the bleached and sunwashed stones I followed the
straightforward pattern of your long bones, and everywhere the cold blue
skin of ocean tightened across my vision, fragile as an eyelid


ii.
morning circumscribed the island like an arctic wind
I stretched around the distraction of your body
I sat on the floor, self-exiled outcast from your bed
drawing up a map out of your skin

(I am trying spell your name, to write my claim, to your body parts,
your half-broken heart, your rambling thoughts)

besides your body, what else have I learned?
an undramatic quietness in my breast,
a way to tell if I am empty or I am full,
a small warm crevice into which to fold my soul,
like a well-worn shirt, a secret note, a pair of hands at rest

(I am singing you a song here, you are teetering at the top of my lungs,
you are coming out undone, untangled but inadequately sung)


iii.
in the morning dark your bones all rise to touch the light

Along the simple geography of your frame I try to name and follow
familiar signs, but your roadside spine curves out from the usual lanes

And what scares me is I don't know how to cross;
I pray not so much to know my way around
as to still be safe and warm
when I (inevitably)
get lost

Poetry Magazine