I come from a night's urgent rushing: off here, there, to your side
Because something's hurt under your clothes,
I pull them from your frame and they give off.
Through bare chest I can hear a heart beating,
though it suffers a great silence between beats.
Or is it me that I hear? My own pathetic whimper?
Your arms are still at your sides, my left ear to your left breast.
We stay like that and fall asleep. Awaking we find a room,
populated by each other, and our thoughts, which are a thick fog.
In our shared dream the logic is math and outcomes are basic as breathing,
fucking, eating lunch. There are three possible outcomes:
Perfection, Delusion, Isolation.
We karate chop at the fog with our right and left arms, same with the legs
to the point of exhaustion, then sit.
I wish I'd brought my memory bell, I say.
I wish I'd brought my concentration feather, you say.
We decide to meditate with our eyes closed, hearing each other's thoughts.
Your thoughts sound like the ocean, I think, and you hear me.
Your thoughts sound like oranges being peeled and eaten, you think, and I hear you.
Through the fog the bodies are sitting still, and even further down they are holding each other,
Ear to chest, chest to ear.
I just want to keep holding you down deep there, where we are having this dream.
The sound of a string unravelling very quickly. I want to look at your face.
Your face is full of outcomes.
I open my mouth and outcomes fall from it,
faster than toads.
Your shoulders etch a shrug upward, they don't come back down.
Your shoulders turn into hawks that scan from high branches.
My mouth is still open. Your hawks put their beaked heads inside and I feel them looking.
The top of my head shatters from the pressure of hawks.
I am dying I think.
I am sorry you think.
Your skin is so warm to me, I'll miss it.