Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you,
like I can’t find you in sweat-swept browbone
or one consuming, beautiful grin -
Is this new? Did I forget the way our surging
closeness packs the lungs like grave-dirt,
soil moist with heat and anger?
No, it must be new, or newly discovered,
knees buckled under swallowed tongues.
Is this it? Is this the way they did it, those
Coupled skeletons unearthed with clasped
hands? If you could excavate a mind, you’d find
turmoil, tedium, and above all, love -
I’m sure that your hand fits into mine. Even as
remains, an artifact brushed tenderly into form,
you would be precious to me.
Our fingers weave a pattern outside of time,
and I will dig out your crystalline heart and hold it
to the light until I see clearly -
Will I ever get tired of discovering you, my love?
Even as we slough off the silt that covers
us, both eyes squinting in the dry sun…