Barely rested, but with fevered beats beneath
my skin, I drew her supposed aroma in
and out and in again
and all around this sleeping creature
my world contracted and expanded;
and I wondered of her dreaming.
To pass the time I figured cracks,
pretended craters, dead seas, frontiered
charts across her ceiling. On her walls
I traced our shadows’ leak and meaning,
our slang and our common tongue.
I explored our soft and sheeted region
with hum and thumb and tip of finger.
I conjured, I fancied, from her features,
miracles with brush and stroke.
I breathed her hollows and, as if by magick,
we wreathed this room with imagined matins.