Like paper and ink,
touch, rustle, stain and blot,
blackbirds’ wings,
an overcoat with no buttons,

a wordless letter,
a bat hanging in a cave,
an envelope holding night,
we fold into each other.

Now and then, we lift our heads
to find the sun, let it enter
the creases of ourselves,
before we fall back into darkness.

We curl into our skins,
telescoping flesh, hair, bones,
merging with the other,
mouth to ear, eyelid to cheek,

spine-twined, lip-linked,
our fierce attachments
resurrected in a small gallery
of innocence and regret,

good and evil,
our forgotten margins,
a mute language crumpled
into another prodigal winter.