Yes, patterned moonlight hums inside cicadas, drunk with language,
blurred in the thought of breakfast keeping me awake, the thought
gyves you too, distinct, who sees my approach, utters in built forms;
I can’t contain myself, I move in etymology.

Bleeding with eight half senses, I try
to fit all your gems imbruing chains. I talk to you
dazed with night, a coin’s rusted weight
tucked in the calyx of sleep cuplike, distant.

Ringlets of soft cursive stammered on your temple
my hands feel distinct from yours. Touch upon lips.
Trace the glance wide in a mirror, place a finger on metal glass,
abates the calico dust lid and ornaments a hand on your cheek.

Every nail a droplet of Bordeaux, the thought of breakfast keeping me awake,
but you, don’t hear the sounds asleep, a palm tree is far sputtering radio;
it is the way you sleep, to go within
this tendency to repeat goes again, then, mooring less, again.

Our song slows down towards the end;
I hold you near, close as emotion,
a feeling without a name.