I fear that if I stay here long enough, I, too,
will become old and fallow, a field too dry
to brush up against heaven. Each gravitational field
irradiating from our bodies, each spot of ink
that dots the wall above our headboards, each shadow
looking for a form to justify its existence.
Tacked to the wall staring
at the one I desire, I will eat bricks
until I grow heavy and worn,
waterlogged like the bodies
we dredge from the lakefront,
begging the man with the rowboat
to dry off our faces, his starchy hands
bearing every sign of having once carried
love notes addressed personally to God.
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