they used to awaken to a suite of silence
like the cinema before Chaplin spoke,
sliding like acrobats across coffee tables
and road maps
to steal words from the voices of
birds.
they used to awaken to ceremonies of glass
pushed like orange peels through
sheets of water,
comb through each other’s
bodies and flutter.
he used to watch
how the tangent of her
shoulder, like a Chinese character, fell
beneath his arm.
they used to live
in the hour between dreams
and children,
when the bathroom
mirror succumbed to the first
leaves of light
and swallows gathered
in ringlets along the eaves.
she used to whisper something intangible.
listening to her eyes,
he used to hear the blue vault,
thin and ceramic,
cracking through the trees.
holding his breath in her mouth
she would transfigure, Christ like
in a crescendo of flowers,
a wall of prismatic light.
