Far Side Maps

Skin is never at a loss for scars
or crude angles of bone 

in search of new cells to stretch. 
Harsh morning light 

displays the worst of it. Hands 
survey the damage. You ask 

for more than I offer. Our muscles 
contract, relax, collapse, turn 

to pulp. Half-frozen desire. Slush 
of sweat and stardust. Hollow 

returns to my chest. 
There’s only room enough 

for our secrets in space,
their gravity 

pulling light and darkness
indiscriminately.

Our clothes folded by the oak,
fallen with the leaves but less colorful.