there were the bones of us
damp impressions
left wild-eyed on still-warm bedsheets

we lay scattered throughout the
day
and rehearsed four-cornered vows in the
silence of immediacy

we didn't know what to say then
and we don't know now

but the sky is blue today and there
is magic when poems are air-brushed
by unseen hands, heard as falling rain
on cobblestone by some, felt like the
melancholy of dying stars
by others

Yo Yo Ma draws his bow,

I catch my breath
I am enthralled by the world,
its savage heat.