What a world you were wounded for. A word, crossed out and cast aside.
Late grass, late grass, summer moon scooping a slice of twilight out of the sky.
We can’t name the birds anymore. And the people perish.
What words are lost as we forget to walk among them: dark-eyed junco, California towhee.
You came, because precisely nothing is common.
We form letters with our fingers now, our mouths no longer moving along with them. No longer sending them flying into space.
But you: word uttered, breath on the field, breathe on my hair, heat in my ear.
No wonder heaven’s closest to heaviness, to flesh. Body upon me.
Moons reflected on your chest. Atom — adam.
My salt. My word.
Name of every piece of you, in flight when you’re in my mouth.