Here we sleep best as rain
slaps the skylights and windows
frame the imperfect city
darkness. I want to say that lust
gives issue to land, that home lies
over the mountain range of some
lover’s outline in the dead-channel
light. I run my fingers along
the rosary your spine makes
but I can’t name the words
each vertebrae forms. I can’t
translate that sentence into anything
other than wine-dark water
trying to reach the shore.
Please, tell me the truth: is there
no other way? Must our bodies be
only storm-tossed ships afraid to sail
through the whirlpool of this bed
before we can enter the harbor
and arrive safely at home?
All night, we’re tossed and turned
in the bedsheets’ terrible gales
and at sunrise, we come to.