Winter’s early evening, and I sculpt moonlit clouds
over our shoulders. Our bodies fall. The lamps
have their flickering. I’ve said a hundred prayers
to her knees, and now, I’m at work beating a drum for
our future, making ceremony of my dark hands.
Outside, thick skeins of black branches sway woozily.
I’m thinking of vineyards in Sardegna, thornbushes,
wood-scented apples, charms beneath fingernails.
What color’s that cry trickling from her mouth?
In a sacred grove, we leave melodies on each other’s skin.