In this dark you are asleep and your
eyelids are fawns drinking. There is nothing
more truly made of petals than your
face aslant and the tremors it leaves
on the pillow in the lockjawed oyster of your sleeping.
Nothing in this dark to skate on
and nothing for my appetite but
I can't complain because now we are
going the way that leads to blue blue
hills, maroon hills, hills of all hues,
drooping hues in colored loops of hills.
Besides, you sleep when I can't sleep
(you should know better than to leave me)
so I plug in the lamp not looking
at your pale skin that
makes the moon look strung out on hope--
if I did I'd have to
wake you up and say, look!
look: god couldn't take
those hills from us!
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