i held your stories in my hands the way children hold frogs or birds
thumbs gentle touching their necks, feeling their nervous
pulses. how they beat past mine quick the way a skyline flickers
in the distance. from my perch atop a bluff. in the damp grass
with a bottle of wine and cold cold skin, how the night comes
to spell out the last of winter for me
in the vapor of my breath, its
february, not may.

this week i heard our eyes rhyme
and it sounded sweet, but you used a word
i didn't understand. my thumbs tapping
on your neck, i didn't ask the meaning.
i'll be sounding the vowels for days.