in the night, we are no longer divisions
of state lines and startled consciousness,
undone by understandings irrevocably inverted
or speaking silliness into curved shells worn shiny
with the grating caress of everything unsaid

we are no longer differences in anatomy
or name, not new england or the southeast
not long i’s curved like boomerangs to slice back
into speakers’ mouths or careful calculations of syllables
interspersed with nineteen-something vernacular;

undone knot by tense knot
to fall loose, soft, silent
into a single pile of nerves and fibers
we are the collected sounds of sleepy murmurs
and teeth set hard against orgasms
that split early morning into ions,

of queerly caught breath and uncontrolled giggles
and accents twisted in and out of coasts and landlocks

old histories, new clarities and tongue-tripping nothings
strung together in the gentle necklace which adorns
the proud throat of warbling night,

we are only our maybe,
our could be,
our is–

i like it this way


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