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.
