A Plate of Flames
When you kiss my dried out lips, everything
spins as if I’d eaten a plate of flames. My
hands flail at your waist. Somehow your voice
shimmers and everything I hear begins with “Why?” –
that old hostility. Who has broken the door of night?
See the black splinters, those shards scattered
on floorboards, that prophetic pattern in the dust.
Who can read the contours of breath? Under what sign
can such prophecy swim upstream into our stunned
eyes? Who held your hand under the sycamore and what’s
the difference anyhow? Summer aches with its lightest
green, and dark sky smells of moths and screens and pungent rain.