Flipping it over, each wrist
with its bracelet of flesh
each finger shaped by its bone, we're
upending the days
exploring the spaces between.

After the long night and porcelain dreams
after rivers of sleep, morning
hangs by a thread.
Face to face, we imagine our bodies
stored in hollows
secret deposits deep in the foam.

The day has no beginnings—
sky goes everywhere at once
in turquoise innocence.
Warmth rises. Sweat gleams.
And the echo of our interlocking rhythms
pulse through vacant rooms.

This house is what it is
each wall stands alone
each window with a sky of its own
and we are reaching backwards, love
in a seethe of memories
that ache like static from another world.