Arrested in the hand, a thing sweet lashes
black. My lover has become the cruelest shape : twilight.
He would open our corner windows each night, unclasp
the house from the city and frame new passages
against the backs of my eyes. In conversation
I bore knotted leaves he pruned away.
He won't show his inner nature, so I assume it's mine,
together holding close to what we separately are--
Our hard words fouling the simple chores of grace--
I swear, my lover's errant. Or is the silhouette in me.
I get up in the dark to shoo the selfish birds,
their sounds blanketing us both. (Whose turn was it--
which of us is too much gone?) Outside is a nest--a snake
making a nest beside, by waiting. Branches tapping at
the window. Humility is its own lure, its seed, and laden.