Prayer wakes me when trains turn on the rusty track below our window.
A cheap knit cap holds your wet head. Your face sweats into the pillowcase.
Clocks swing from fishing line strung across the bedroom. Their palms slap out the seconds. There’s not enough time to write the tomes of my love for you.
The garden settles in the dark night. We pulled at the pulpy dirt. You shook out thin nets of roots and held plants above your head like small trophies. Laughter split your face. Our legs were splayed like children at play. Soil marked our faces like war paint.
Red chard red threw out veins. Thyme grew in thick clumps. Rosemary grew tall, and crickets rubbed their back legs together in low whistles. Warm piles of bunnies shook around tree trunks. Crowns of cabbage bloomed. Purple and green leaves crimped, loose curls piling on one another. Cilantro seeds rattled loose in dry husks.
Wind lifted the curls on the hem of the patio umbrella. You sleep in cursive letters. I feel your soft face when my hands are still beside my thighs. Laughter is pushed tight in corners of the room. Long underwear pulls between your knees. We’ve been whispering secrets to one another for years. The room is full of them, and they pull the air into clean, thin strands. Your hairline stirs. I want to squirrel the pale hairs away in my ears.
We made drowsy love at 3:00 AM in a second floor apartment on Beech Street. A bald man moved heavy wardrobes downstairs, dragging them across the floor while we moved upstairs, half awake in the dark. The shaky seeds of the seeds of a heavy head of cabbage turned a pale shade of purple as birds carried them down Union Street.