i.
If only words had been tangible as fingers,
equal to the familiar lightning
of touch, or like our footsteps, placed
one before the other and getting somewhere,
leave no traces save distance, a fresh view
of river, the rain evaded one more time.
Even air is like paper, bears our weight
on its invisible parchment, stained and
humid with the day’s confessions. Had
you looked this deep into the world,
you’d stir flakes of sweat, skin, specks
that speak of us, the debris of selves
mingling into ordinary dust.
ii.
Your fulsome
syllables, curvaceous
conversations, husky
sunlight rubbed raw
against concrete
need, the musk of
tongues imprinted
on coffee mugs, arouses
more than heart. I too
am of this earth, its secret
tremours, undiscovered
springs, valleys cleaved
by streams not of our making,
one of so many worlds
in giddy, silent orbit.
iii.
Which is why, the day
you pulled me along, I fell
wordlessly forward into motion,
compelled by the gravity
of your hand in mine.