Inside
The lonely are always a step away from comfort
with the nearest edge fleeting beyond the boundaries
of their bodies. Even the people I’ve married
have soft hands when touching the cold skin
of the day. Not one word can open—
conversations between the night and morning sun
are one-sided: the imagination of romance has driven
love from our bodies to form in the leaves of a maple
rippled with wind. I am a wire in the grass
preparing to leave the earth for the surface of night.