Where now does the body
go (pillow between

your legs is not me) the
feet know, scratch at

the surface of the sheet,
the heat     underneath

a victory, space
finally defeated.

Your back (turned away, soft
wall) is all secrets. Each

spot counted aligns to
another name. I lay

out a hand, take it,
I say, let my lines make

their mark there (You move,
moan through

a syllable that is
not me). The groove

down your middle, shallow
split of rib-

                   cage, rises,
settles in, my hand

once met you there and
was enough, I am

thinking. My thought is not
my hand.    (Facing me,

breath sweet needle
bursts) the curse is

in the closeness.
I try to breathe in and in

and in; air an ocean,
salt, seaweed, rose-hips.

(Your round lower lip
curls slightly in:

“Rise,” I think it is
saying)                  I rise, my

parts all re-align
ing. Outside, silence is

a disguise—sparrow
finds her perfect

perch, worm rolls toward
the ivy shade. (You,

now spark of            eyes,
breasts, shoulder, neck,

white stones of a river-
bed) your body

says, simply, not time
yet, rest,   rest, rest, rest.

Caleb Scott