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She wakes up, nothing is the same. Even the sun
hangs suspended. What morning is this? Tell me,
did everything die while we slept? "Calm yourself,"
he tells her--disconnecting his syllables when he talks.
"Only the land has shifted. See the dust circle
our windowsill? It will soon settle. " He eases the knot
in her throat, another in her stomach. Yes, she begs him.
Yes. The way her neck tilts left in conversation
makes his hands seem delicate. He starts at the breast,
instinctive--soft the way his fingers squeeze
the one nipple his mouth does not occupy. Outside
the wind is frantic and she can hear great trees shiver,
the ground tamp itself. Is all of life a prelude for us?
"Yes," he tells her. "Yes." His eyes like two tiny Picassos
conveying for her blue. Magnificant man, she smolders.
Bald beast and tongues the soft spot on his skull.
Her belly round with the world beneath her dress.
But what sounds rattle her eardrum now?
Here, in the pulse-beat, the rumbling, the music
inside his gut? She draws closer. She does not whisper,
she surrounds. Let me suck obsessively the salt,
the white honey. "Yes," he pleads, "yes." His hands
have already lost themselves, his fingers
crazy, counting uno...dos..tres, quatro, quatro.
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