Four AM pulls its brittle seam to snap open another wish bone night,
Venus has mounted Jupiter, and they’re headed for the barn.
It is the hour of cracked kettles, when dreams simmer, and my dark woman
uncurls like fiddlehead, the bud more painful than the blossom.
She cloaks me and we are spoons in a drawer, we are hidden agendas,
we hark back to somewhere between mauve intention and first light.
She hovers within me, pretends to speak for the chaos of shoes
in a tumble around the bed. They might as well be our punctuation
for the day ahead. We crawl on our bellies as apostrophe bridges.
In tantric mudras, we bend like ampersand. Our vagary is an ellipsis.
It corduroys the moment into runway lights, and I have confounded
the undercarriage. We could pray for water, but today waking is
a crash landing. Even so, I lift my tongue to croon in awkward aubade
with my shadow kin. She’s pouring us coffee, and I climb inside her skin.
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