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Lisa Ciccarello
At night,
inside the house, the dark has a sound:
key-turn; vessel filled with steam; glass on wood; the sheets pulled back;
inside the wax, a pool of wax; step-sound: leather at the ankle; leather at
the wrist; a chair moves across the floor; the steam returns, makes nothing
sing; flattening of down; the ribbon lifted & a thumb run across;
throat-call, more please than song. Let me show you.
At night:
The light of the moon is an ice-trick, cold shine.
Everywhere light finds you; it draws you from your bed. Up. Everywhere
it makes you a promise.
Not yet: pulse, bloom at your neck: nearing.
Up & even the tree fails to lift, branch after branch all fingerlings.
Even closer, even if you could, nothing to warm you is coming.
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