the less that I was saying
the more our wires were braiding
like a jacket we've been weaving
out of the ghosts of other feelings
so young and yet so ancient
we diaphanous sprites
our silence speaks fierce omens
in black sonar
I'll scrawl an atlas
of your soft moans
and line the spine
with cherub's marrow
but we can't touch
each other darling
there is no body
'neath our awnings