"Don’t tell me the moon is shining;
show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
We don’t have to kiss.
I’ll type the fingers of a petal-flesh pianist
along a swan’s neck
and watch it give away its question.
We don’t have to be in the same room.
I’ll exhume a thousand histories
of fresh gardens blooming
from the battlegrounds
of wars against the world’s walls
and there we’ll paint a private haven.
We don’t have to touch.
I’ll write time as fluidly as calligraphy
into the story of how I get from there
to here, and you will feel every moment.
We don’t have to see
to enter each other’s bodies.
Close your eyes and listen closely:
This is the sound of summers humming
through the window, the cotton clouds
of bedsheets under our skin,
the dewy air of spring trickling down
our foreheads and between our limbs,
the sex of angel’s breath we inhale,
the red lips of every fire, the water
of every tear gone by,
the end of the world and the beginning
of the world as we know it.
Volcanic - as shaken - remade
and settled as an island anew.