My mind
is always composing arrangements:
Piles of this and that, strewn heaps
of clothing on the floor,
an open window, and how it frames
the light.
Piles of this and that, strewn heaps
of clothing on the floor,
an open window, and how it frames
the light.
My mind
is composing the arrangement of bodies
in space,
or the features of my face.
I am composing the arrangement of our bodies
and how— though this is already infinite auspicious display—
I long
for your lips to be so close to mine, I could feel your breath
move,
could feel your life.
And then I long for there to be no space between us at all–
only all around and through–
Because when we are one
we touch so much more of heaven— and I can feel it
pouring down us in torrents so vast,
so all penetrating, no one
could
stand it, were we
not so firmly rooted
to Earth.
