Desire becomes swampy in the early morning heat,
a slow burning grows up into a person who moves inside a skin,
insides fraught with flame but outside stretched at first taut
against the sinew. We do, then,
make ourselves soft as parts of things, always, become past.
We do fold ourselves into the one of us. There is an entanglement
that stirs deep below the surface, it is hard to gasp, even,
the sound that is your name. It is rich and
it builds me up, this uttering,
in quiet and secret layers, and I am in pain even
from an image of your wrists which in memory moves
slowly- and innately eludes every true part of me.
I am desperate in trying not to call you out,
I am desperately without your skin.
Desperately! Fingering through air, through tunnels of yesterday
and into the beyond.
Indiana, can you hear me?
Remember, history moves bodies through time-
Like slow ships, we are bent to doubling with bows
determined against the wind-
You are a boat still, a silent piece of ( )
You are a box of carefully sorted bones,
shined and locked away like winged color eluding immortality.
You rock upon me.
You billow into my mouth, even, as I struggle to sit up with open eyes.
Catching my breath escapes you, always, this waking
never anything except the death of dreams. The dawn
says a dirge for your shadow
only because it knows no better.
I go out to find you, Indiana.
I go to find the bones and the skin of you in the open air.