communion

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.

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