In our search for a proportionate address we leak
out of bed as you stretch your books and I mine
the frozen language for olding hands day by week.
I account for each siren and you count the hips to sigh
for with the seam of open borders. Tracing the yard,
the lace of leaves as why I write. Why I, right, frown
your side affects, the cadence of the fact that stars:
a woman is a thing that absorbs. Reset by our brown
paper walls, time lends rest (flooding fast the thread
where we once swam to altar, prepared mourning
feasts, and, at last, lashed all the ideas we wed).
I’m sorry we need to be bodies here, five doors in
a closed round, the words we cross a swarm
from which I am wrung. As I, wrong, form.
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