sometimes it is there in the morning and it drives
the quit to buy a pack. it is so implicit that if i said it
i would be sure but it would sound of another
language. i pull back from you because to be
totally within you is the truth. how your skin is
the verdant grass on the rolling hills
of a country i could call
home but have never stayed—
and the magnolias in Philadelphia
could be you if I had my nose
buried in the nape of your neck.
the non-specific morning rings of you
as I wake, peering through the blinds
at a concrete cove, it pushes through
hours, to night, end—
you are my crimson sky at set, a sign
of smooth seas, to have you would be
to know, to be
sure, of everything
else,
and without i
wake and hear
you, in all of
the leaves;
i, still, after all of this time