xiii

only the rain
knows the fall
and dive
of your lips
and only the hollow
of a well
knows the echo
of those words
tiny
but warm
and worn

but these hands

these hands

these
hands

are haunted by your
phantom hips
and
by the slender
of your nape

twisting
sinking
writhing

in
threads and locks
knotting these fingers
and spending this breath