And still I'm traipsing through the fields
of wildflowers and grass and foxtails. Beyond
these ... [+]
This morning, before sunrise, I walked
along the road, passing
all the boarded-up buildings, the undressed
trees, the puddled street corners dark
as your eyes the first time we spent
in my bed—how, in that blue hour
before daylight, we awoke to the moon
hanging from the sky, almost full.
That morning, we got caught in the rain,
saw dozens of earthworms scattered
over the sidewalk, searching for dry land.
You side-stepped around one, mused
about your childhood spent fishing
with family at the local lake, the memory
of your father telling you that—if cut—
worms can replace their lost parts.
Back then, you used to brush your lips
across my hand and we tangled our legs
in sleep. Back then, I didn't need
any rebuilding, didn't feel close to drowning
in this longing, didn't ache
to be severed, to grow back
into something you never touched.