Ur

The weight of these bodies,
of this isolation: the cavern
it cuts out of my skull--fragile
and dull and mulled
with red wine--
is actually
made of sugar
stung by your blood and understudied
in some urgency
for the role of a lifetime.

I suffocate
from both pleasure and regret;
East of the divide
the wind
is our forgetting.

These years, too,
have stretched expansively
We are yawning. We are
composed of contradictions;
we exhale.  We might (one day)
suffocate were it not
for yoga and our fear
of death and the utter
unforgivable endlessness
from which the planet
has somehow managed
to conjure up the plains..

The hapless gravity
that holds it all together
is made too much
of anticipation:
the beating of a heart,
and of another, of two heard U
at a distance,
down hallways.
 
That will remain
wordless...

The weight of these things,
of bodies---both celestial
and those made of flesh--
will here lie scattered as if
some act of terrorism
has torn us from bed and breakfast
nook, bleeding
and needing no explanations,
expecting none.