I murmur something inarticulate,
kissing her goodnight in bed. We rummage
past civilizations, digging further
back into ourselves. She smells like trees.
Often, it is a good idea to discuss
homosexuality generally.
Droplets of water stand on our shoulders
like tears. “Push it in, are you going to?”
In the woods, the tree frogs are still going.
We can smell rain in the air. “Think
of the children,” she exhales, her eyelids
sewn shut with needles. “Won’t people look at you
in the street?” She spreads her legs, loosing
eternal truths like wildfires. It is the moment
when one’s body is replaced
by that of another. I hear the clock
murmur something inarticulate. In the morning,
when my shoes and trousered legs pass
through the light without hesitation,
she will fall, like a shadow.