The night the windows all crash
in their frames, I’m not the shambled
aftermath or the boy-girl order.
The spaces between us are not spaces
at all but a thousand blue flowered
nightgowns. You haven’t yet learned
to discern the shape of things according
to your tongue. Heavy cumulus hang
the sky like sheets from a line
and entire alphabets go missing.
In the dark, a woman’s teeth
flicker on and off. We’ll decide
who’s leaving by scientific method
and the rule of light bulbs and iceboxes.
My skin allows enough lumen for the boxwoods to glow.