afterwards we can say the names
roses in winter
in death we shall write the cadences of sound in chin
the line like sand in dune
reaching over into the sea
but till then we still bind our bodies
leaves
books or tobacco
–both burnt offerings–
to our secret gods of love
the night who knows no shade
only silence inside of words
ringing out over the aether
in his prison
shaking against our breasts
(let me out)
it’s like some great spirit-taking
what was done to men and women of this earth
for over 100 years
a spell whose magic has finally burnt out
if I should be bound to you
as to a wife
let this breaking
flow a great river
from below
spring the earth
like your arms spread against your lap
and I the seed atop the tree
watching myself fall