Probing deeper, into smaller pockets of feelings
I will say your name again tomorrow
the word like wet mud, firming primordial.
I pause to explore the architecture of this sensation—
the act of placing a spoon in your mouth. You ask my name.
I close my eyes, sealing within me
a river strewn with loving golden hands.
I stack impressionable wounds as I slowly start
to remove the flowers from within your ribs.
Asleep in this bleached place, a separate world,
we insert our fingers into the same quiet sinkhole
and I imagine the center of a forest,
widening light, as I remove the spoon from your mouth
and you are choking for a moment—
I form the question: what is in the urn,
the urn, my heart?
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Image from archive.org
