Our bodies, still young under
the engrave anxiety of our
faces, and innocently

more expressive than faces:
nipples, navel, and pubic hair
make anyway a

sort of face: or taking
the rounded shadows at
breast, buttock, balls,

the plump of my belly, the
hollow of your
groin, as a constellation,

how it leans from earth to
dawn in a gesture of
play and

wise compassion—
nothing like this
comes to pass
in eyes or wistful
mouths.
           I have

a line or groove I love
runs down
my body from breastbone
to waist. It speaks of
eagerness, of
distance.

              Your long back,
the sand color and
how the bones show, say,

what sky after subset
almost white
over a deep woods to which

rooks are homing, says.