Trains turn on the rusty track below our window. A cheap knit cap holds
your wet head. You sleep in cursive letters.
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 pull at the pulpy dirt. You shake out thin nets of roots and hold plants above your head like small trophies. Laughter splits your face. Our legs are splayed. We are children at play with soil marking our faces like war paint.
Chard throws out maroon veins. Thyme clumps. Rosemary grows tall, and crickets rub their back legs in low whistles. Warm piles of bunnies shake around tree trunks. Crowns of cabbage bloom; the edges of purple and green leaves are crimped and the loose ruffles are frothy. They tumble over one another and fall out of the garden.
Wind lifts the scalloped hem of the patio umbrella. You sleep in cursive letters. My hands lie still. I hold your soft face without my hands. Laughter pushes 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 under the looping ceiling fan. I want to squirrel away the pale hairs in my ears.
We make drowsy love at 3:00 AM in a second floor apartment on Beech Street. A bald man moves body bags downstairs, dragging them across the floor while we move upstairs, half awake in the dark. You pull words across my body. The shaky seeds of the seeds of a heavy head of cabbage turn pale shades of purple when birds carry them down Union Street.