Sunday at 10 p.m.
and you are painting
cobwebs over a body,
intricately crossing silver lines
-
in mid air above my stomach,
turning each to a tangible, sticky string
with your luminous voice
-
which in this place is tinny, whistles
like a steam train in the darkness
that my dreaming always brings.
-
When I wake I cannot rise
for fear of being caught, so I
turn over, press my ear to the mattress
-
and listen to the hard coursing
of my heart as it rumbles
through every spring.
-
These summers I go
restlessly from room to room
on Sunday nights,
-
hoping I’ll find evidence
of your breath, just
a crack in the wall
-
where your caught
voice slumbers,
where I’ll hear the deep
-
throbbing of your want
from before it turned
into a vicious wildfire
-
enclosed by the keening
lines of my body—
that roaring and laughable plain.
