Outside—
the peonies are beyond their deaths.
But in here—on our continent of a bed—
we are busy showing each other pictures
of ourselves: mouth to rib, back to belly, palm
to hip. Here is the reciprocal breath, the sanctified
taking—my only chance
at reformation.
All day long I live in my head
and as the house bends toward twilight
you say, Listen, you’ve got it all wrong.
Lie down. Get a load of our quiet profiles.
Outside—
the tubers have turned inward,
away from the light.
But in here—in our cathedral of a room—
we are busy ridding ourselves
of words, holding our faces
to the mirror. Carrying out
our best directive.