The night seems to come undone
in the loose ends of a streetlight
throwing down
on a damp moss mound of cloth,
a bundled tangle of breath
–
behind the light you never look behind
a face comes undone
in the way you see it
and hands move over you
in instinct, the hands you forgot
in words
searching to explain
how empty they sound
and how empty your hands
will still be with change
and you see her face
where you lost your own,
and she smiles
the miasma amassing in your dreams,
delicately spinning the light all around her
into the silk of hidden meaning
and when she shows you
she never asked for change
–
The night’s seams come undone
