maybe this finds you
in the morning

as you awake

before the parts of your body
find each other

before your thigh becomes tan and whole
before your bones rope with muscle and blood
before the longbow arc of your back
belongs fully to you

maybe in that space
in the morning
as you awake

some of you

is mine



I want one thing
from you

the story of the scar
that arcs
across your shoulder

the one half-hidden
by the narrow blue strap of your dress

comet's course
orbital bow

I want to hear you
tell it

as I watch the space

between your eyebrows
as you decide
what to hide



they punctuate my mornings
these small, folded pins
punched and tensioned steel, waved and capped
flung into the world by the millions, invisible and forgotten

until they pile by my window
along the lip of the sink
in the dusty right angles where bed meets floor

they alight
the small and large, all subtly glistening shades of straw
of earth and cave-dark

after you leave
after coffee cupped in your hands
and sheets still-warm and smelling of you

they find each other
and clumsily, slowly
form a nest
in the high center of my chest