Nobody in the dawn. It hasn’t yet assembled
the people in its psalm.
If a voice has no body, does it need an ear?
Does the blood carry
its own crosses as it flickers in the flesh
in search of nothing,
the woman it is, a walking yard of graves?
She is not for loving,
as if love were the sharp tip of purpose
piercing, cutting away;
the civilizations bacteria build on bone.
But loving does fit in,
if fitting means being strung along an act
of service: the guitar
talks back to the fingers, the world whispers
to the living: touch
until the noise and feel coalesce, reveal
the music made when
strings and fingers lock as lovers
knocking the headboard
against the wall, a thousand times
its rhythmic pulse
that gives the hour what it wanted when
it made the bodies
and made them ache and put them together;
for love or what
might ever come of living in the dawn.