~ that quality of being seen ~

With an idea of going home

I stand up, gather my effects, shadows and

trembling (but I am already home, have been

sleeping there on the brown couch

where sleep

is easiest amidst the fanfare of his body: to a long house, lovingly,

building a door for sweeping summer

in and out. Thought of leaving

looks around, unsteady transparence for him

to see through, almost anything

on the other side – scrap wood, rusted metal,

oak tree, empty beer bottles welling up, also tears.

His arms reach me before words.

Hip hop rises from the background, shakes off

my belongings, gathers us into drum,

bass and hips, heartbeat roils, wilder

than we can live, but as the rich smoke of his skin

suggests.

(Put more space between the questions, let them

breathe. Doesn’t rhyme with death). Only unrelenting

cadence answers and our hands

are filled with one another – I hold, he

lets go, I wring out, he

draws in. Each breath

deeper than the last of air, swirling,

spiral scribed in just a few steps

to the thin cotton of his shirt, the dark

sway – eyes folded into his chest – begins before we touch, continues

after we imagine we have left.

Railings drink stain in heavy sunlight

color indescribable, we are