Silk / 一絲
June 14, 2020
When day falls dirty into palms
I dream of you
at the overhang of sky,
old sun tangled in my hair.
My exhale cocoons in the window.
I confess to the candle
alight at your shoulder.
Between language I can’t and language you don’t
(speak)
how do we
I come to a still body of water by the way,
watch the words
unravel into threads:
you might have said goodnight.
Just before sleep I hear you
—rattling—against the ends;
my tongue will not surface.