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.


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