Already in their eyes
a secret knowledge of smiles,
of new sweetness,
of the not yet completed.
And their voices,
which speak of mundane things,
of mornings, of childhood,
of the disappointment of rain,
conceal a tremor of bursting stars,
and tomorrows lost in endless sheets.
This precarious dance,
about the stamen of breathless youth,
could yet fail,
could burn in a conflagration
of jinxed guitars.
But, from body to body,
the night is the unspoken,
the necessary ache
that already spreads its roots
to open their brief mouths.
Each one takes from me something,
blade, foam, the sheath of saltwater,
the seaweed of my solitary joy.
Each one takes their share,
so that it might become them, or not.
Am I so easily exhausted?
For those who slept in my night of open windows,
a loam grows in the blue pit of their need,
and is a thread of messengers,
and a wind of return.
Those who fled with my blood at dawn,
are never beyond the salt of my caress.
Tonight I become the solitary bull,
the defiance of foam.
Above the nearness of your bone,
I am an invariable flame of necessity.
The hours become my bottomless appetite,
my blood a devouring wind.
I gouge shadows from the hollow of your body,
and scatter the spiders of your waist.
I topple bones and floods and a frenzy of insects,
the way the bull breaks the corners of its hold.