Night Work

All summer, the city engine's low roar capsizes our bodies into sleep, groans, evacuation— Lost to a watery anamnesis so warm it requires a raft thatched from death's flotsam to necklace its shore I swim on, calling your name In my dreams, something is always deserting But tonight, no fast shadows of birds No oceanic flowers disrobing butterflies or bright beach of child's porridge and bones— Instead, someone weaving a net from fallen hair in and around our bed to catch the breath, blood, and ritual motions that oiled us as one candle in a cave In your dreams, someone is always resisting being saved My teethare on fire, you say I said Don't fly for the labyrinth, once I thought you were admonishing me to go away I don't remember most others, a thousand seasons phonographed in through a wounded window Everyone can't have a cactus Just o.k. empty all the rice from my legs