Sometimes we only feel our way along
picking raspberries by moonlight
and intuition
without a need to see
or understand
why we are suddenly as unmade
as your bed and shadeless lamp.
We reach inside each other in the dark
for fruit, or something permanent.
Sometimes I imagine
your belly stretched -
womb full of twins,
or one held in each arm,
delicate as old photographs.
With similar delicacy
I remove a moth from my hair
and smell my fingers -
the odor of rust
and corruption
my struggle to
connect unconnected
thoughts in
direct contrast to
the stones in your earrings
that are millions of years old
We reach inside each other in the dark;
then in the kitchen’s dim fluorescent light
we try our best to hide our fruit-stained hands.