Because last night or a week ago
you asked what was wrong
and I replied nothing, nothing.
My eyes strong to the wall
not seeing, no subtlety, only
one lamp on next to me in bed: and there
was everything I couldn’t share with you
dancing like soundless dreams:
I couldn’t keep focus long enough
to hand those dreams quiet to you.
It didn’t seem enough to hold you to my chest,
all that could be heard and all that couldn’t,
the allergic clutches of your lungs,
Because my alacrity to give is hindered by my silence:
moments and breaths and weeks ago
us newly threadbare, we were stoned
from our lack of clothes, the bed sheets became
obstacles and you were warmth, sex
was strangely perfect, which is to say,
perfectly soundless: our zeal for contentment:
each other. I wake next to you
every morning as daylilies bloom new:
this is my love for you inexpressible,
this imperfect poem, mute. I am mute.
Because I want to sing now,
I want to keep you up for hours.
You asleep against my shoulder is enough,
body curved to body bending.
And when you wake, you tender
more than wish or prayer, all in a whisper.