Caravans of wind, a cast-over 
starlessness. Is the brunt 
of taking leave mine,
             whole nights vanishing again 
             into the crass dailyness of 
Ends-of-summers ends-of-
towns. You pull 
back into the truce you’ve
             made with yourself. 
             Four shades of white. 
             Never time for the precision in 
limbs, languor, the slower 
charge where your eyes
              release into mine to feel 
              the slight weight and
              shift. Ground
in spring and its dark
pressure of flowers. 
Instead the sudden fever-
             mark on my cheek, 
             a sharp heat that 
             flies from your 
palm as you press it 
for a second where my 
heart under skin is. Hive-in-
ivory. Is it this traction, 
             is it the rampant property-of-
             night we share and see, 
at the gravesides every day 
as we are talking with someone or 
sitting or just staring 
            out. Water in the color of 
            daylight. Whose are you 
            in that intense and separate
            ache if not mine.