The odor of pencil shavings on your fingers
you passed your hand down, across my eyes
I went
through you, through the pungent touch
outward
Before I thought to speak
you had written it out in us, it was no one place
to be smelled or tasted
Even quiet, as our blood settled in us
you were moving, you were ceaseless and you are
ceaseless
I no longer try to imagine you
You are all imagining, and I move with you
no thoughts of my own under your dark breathing
In this fathom-length body and in yours
and between, surge hints
of things forgotten, things not yet known
Under the vault of your hair
in the rising lines and hollows of your throat
the final weight I am
is the breath held around your name
and what is
is hissing for it
from every second of the compass
I've learned not to let it go, that breath
The puny artifice of the name
doesn't work
Something added like a name
shatters in the vortex of touch
Don't be surprised, then
if I hold you off toward sight
looking for what won't yield
what won't be sucked down small into the moving
Every name that comes I feed
to the fire I need to see by
Guessing toward Clarity, by Nelson Foster
**Image linked
**Programming by DPC
