YOUR BICEPS
have never been more beautiful, turned
in a haze of the window as we enter our bodies
___of light. We ought to consider the future
___you said, when we leaped from the dock
to that sailboat—maybe an anchor, maybe
a tangerine float. On the gossamer wing
___of the boat—ocean print mattress, thin
___curtain closed, I wanted your hands
which I understand, to bring weight to our sleep
as rainwater shallows a roof. So I lie over
___and under you now, intoxication of skin
___on skin, as we rise and disappear, disappear
and rise—twilight and halfway into
this life, nearly lost in the variegated night.
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