Your shoulder blade is a projection that conforms to the socket of my eye.
I want to touch it,
to read the soft curls of your back hair with my fingers cupped like ears. To find the never-uttered password which opens the cave of your self.
But you do not resonate to such strumming and the damp air trembles, waiting.
How do I say what I can’t say? I am leaving you—
This park bench bites my thighs like a church pew, I am leaving you—
the street lights tremble like spiderwebs in a storm. I am leaving you— The earth has opened its chest and I am falling toward the glow of its heart. There is just one question:
When you remember the hurricane in which we first said I love you, do you think of the storm itself—
the wind and the chittering window panes; the lightning,
flashbulb blue, which lit our naked bodies in a single brilliant moment?
Or do you think of the morning after:
wet gurgling from the busted skylight and cold beans for breakfast.
Windows, shy as us, facing the cloudy dawn
in cloaks of maple leaves, red and gold.