There are no guarantees
among dense magnolias
biding their blooms.
There is this unlooked-for thing in the early morning—
your warm hull
dreaming beside me.
I hear best when I’m not listening.
Here’s the dialtone.
The future’s never certain,
but some things do keep coming,
like sunrise, when an image manifests
in the corner of my eye—
through the windows, over your body—
Here be monsters.
The spring night is just-passed rain,
black streets rinsed and shining,
dim people in slickers
walking microscopic dogs.
The body as the axis of itself
has many ways of conversing.
I’ve been learning words with lots of vowels.
The openness of speech.
Fluttery hands, fidgety laps.
Nerves set my body to the string.
Their sound will reach you over land and sea.
Through floors and walls.
In pliés and swoops.
The compromise of breath and muscle,
feet pounding the floor.
by which I display
by which I wear them out.