We slept naked
On top of the covers and woke
In the chilly dawn and crept
Between the warm sheets and made love
In the morning you said
“It snowed last night on the mountain”
High up on the blue-black diorite
Faint orange streaks of snow
In the ruddy dawn
I said
“It has been snowing for months
All over Canada and Alaska
And Minnesota and Michigan
Right now wet snow is falling
In the morning streets of Chicago
Bit by bit they are making over the world
Even in Mexico even for us”
you
Brought in a chair one day,
Stood on it, took my life down from the shelf
And blew the dust away.
—Boris Pasternak, Poetry, August 1947
When you were sleeping on the sofa
I put my ear to your ear and listened
to the echo of your dreams.
That is the ocean I want to dive in,
merge with the bright fish,
plankton and pirate ships.
I walk up to people on the street that kind of look like you
and ask them the questions I would ask you.
Can we sit on a rooftop and watch stars dissolve into smoke
rising from a chimney?
Can I swing like Tarzan in the jungle of your breathing?
I don’t wish I was in your arms,
I just wish I was peddling a bicycle
toward your arms.
We walked back to iDEATH, holding hands. Hands are very nice things, especially after they have traveled back from making love.