Light comes and he is warm and still.
A soft, low song swells guarded
In the dark of him.
To me it is discordant;
Another tone which grates against
This note of my own.
My eyes are clear,
And lines are somehow sharper
In this cold and pallid cast
Of early brightening;
In which we always will be nothing
But thin shells encasing wants and needs.
His turned back does not offend;
It holds nothing for or from me.
I can see through blemished skin
And trusting spine
And planes of muscle, tightening as
Fragile systems nurse him through a dream.
I don’t feel empty;
Listen and you’ll realise that
No pale or cavern heart
Sits nestled in my breast,
Feeding upon barbed contempt like
You think it should.
This is where my wholeness lies;
Not in snatched trysts,
Where crude things burn,
But in the afterward; in the wakening,
Where we return, give up the lie
Which masks the children that we are.
Side by side, he thinks I’ll never know
His eyes are open too;
Full as a question, content in the clarity
That comes when we lose our minds
And slow down to truly listen;
To fathom if we want them back at all.