Bone. Breast. Hand.
With my words I build a house. Out of our bodies
together, our mouths, the slant of a smile in the dark
I fashion a world, a place where we may go
that does not lie, nor begrudge each moment ticking past
but opens into vistas of possibility, green as grass.
Brow. Hip. Thumb.
If my words could make a world
I would falter after speaking us two, stunned,
delirious perhaps,
would fall down into your embrace
and leave us with nothing but the garden and the snake.
The apple would grow into four trees, our bedposts,
branches and sky a canopy of leaves stuck through with stars.
Smile. Touch. Sigh.
I shut my eyes, feel only skin and the pulse
of your breath, then mine.
My words flail, grasping blindly at this moment
already gone. They chase it, a white moth in the moonlight.
I am left, speechless with longing
at the touch of one white wing as it slips between my fingers.
9/6/96