The clear sky has turned white.
When did the roots of your hair begin
to reflect the distance of the road
from moonlight? Supposing we did
what we said we would not do?
Perhaps I would not be secretly
looking for the pale blush
of squash flowers in each new
greengrocer I visit. I taste
your lips each time I drink
the salty broth. When a dragonfly lit
on the porch, I counted birthday
after birthday on the grid of its belly
pressed to the screen. Still with me,
the idea of you is close enough to touch
like the nubs that rise at the ends
of the strut between my shoulder blade
and sternum. The textbook says:
The clavicle is the only long bone
in the body that lies horizontally.
It says nothing of how things lie down
before they say goodbye or go to sleep.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.