In the dark I’m remote from what you call Personality. Nothing but nerve and guts
like flowers that shoot, up when you enter the room and I’m yours if you want.
For an hour, a minute. All night I can do nothing; text the dead, fix the gap of door/ and
jamb. In the mind: I trace
the index finger: air, contours of furniture, cracks,
slant of white light across the wall.
On your back at 2 o’clock you twist the ring around your finger.
I know you’re there. Don’t you feel it’s better like this.