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By Toklas Date: 2001 Sep 08 Comment on this Work [[2001.09.08.03.47.20125]] |
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I lost track of which one of us is dying, the net around my foot, your hand-- this downward pull, this rope tightening around us marking but one; we trade it back and forth in thigh hugging thigh for blood, veins engorged without distinction. Mornings in the garden, we exchange brushes of fingers on the trowel, recall each of our twenty thousand days. Fence posts that once stood straight, we bolster with patchy slats, laugh at their crazed leaning. Along doomed porch rails, we clip overgrown vines, admire intricacies of straggle and sag, the sink and plastic curve of disrepair. Submerged in ivy trellis, capillary and cord, we stretch out on the night, listen to a shutter rattle on the hinge, to the lap of stars against our bones. |