At last, a body is not unlike a shelter,
conquers storms, quells
the dulled knees in the field.
an afterthought of mice in moonlight. The field
as house and mother
first sigh & final scythe.
debrief: whose hands hung that mask,
its slung shadow
on the wall stretches to lip
the mirror in the hall, who?
at the soft play of fingertips,
we breathe desires,
then welcomed, glass-eyed & mud-drug.
Swallows tongue song, press
ceiling’s slow descent,
his fading light to become at last a no or yes.