What does He even know
of the plinking stones rolling the river on?
Smooth edges—hewn from rock or water.
Tree-birds swinging through swigs of light.
My body rests in yours, but He is glacial,
icy spires resplendent with cool light
that burns to touch. What does He know
of the warm slab on which we intertwine?
Candles falling down from the dark,
stars finding their places in our mouths.
Whose hands will move through
the thick air between us first?
And how will He tear
each pleasure away slowly?