Tuesday, March 22, 2005

openings (draft)

Because we are wintered and blued,

witched and sugared, the bed harbors

collapse and our pockets, a flood.

Strange how this wound in my

mouth opens a bit when I say love.

A strangle that pools the sheets

and soaps the dawn blurry.

Given time I can linen my body

to white, can map the coordinates

of continental drift by the shift

of vertebrae. What spreads,

what closes, like buttons on a dress.