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Vespers
There is a split in the sky
through which stars are falling.
My fingers slide along the gash,
your skins imperfections,
.
craters on the dark side.
I stroke the earth's curve,
your ribs and valleys,
then along the thoracic spine.
Mist collects in your sternal notch.
My tongue fills the hollow
above your collar bone.
Your heavily lidded eyes open
like half moons.
Stars break over my neck
until my shoulders slip
through the Milky Way.
You turn away from me
like the earth rotating towards dawn,
yet anchored by the sun.
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LOW TIDE
After a late summer storm,
muscle, feathers and bones litter the beach,
tethered by ribboned kelp.
I pick over the sea's dissection
alone, when I might have walked
with you, discussing details
of this and that: the separation
of skin from bone,
how an eyeless cormorant moves
with life. The sea has given up
its summer's dead. My heart rattles
within a hollow chest.
So many spaces
our conversation might have filled instead.
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