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My breath that asks for air , Genevieve Kaplan
Clouds of quiet lies collide above us.
Smash of darned fingers.
Fever in the kitchen.
The universe abounded.
I ask how you miss me,
rock by the ocean,
something boiling.
And you papered the light
and fished me out,
a small bone myself
like the rain in the yard
in the fingerless breeze.
My lips split and you're there to save me.
It had not been for some time
that I walked about, unappeased,
getting lost behind the shrubbery.
The dusk was dead as the sky
from motion like a sea.
Vast needles in the sky.
So that distance set in distance we came home.
No gesture was ever fast enough.
One hand abreast of the floor
kept aloft our quaint desires.
you were up to my shoe.
To my knee.
To my thigh. |
