Your shoulder blade (a boomerang now)
runs back at my lips and seeing that arc wakes me
to this night of moments all standing still together without
a moon to send tides lapping against our knees.
Those moments strung out across
your back like birds forming for a long migration
break into syllables, letters, wisps--
traces of pictures on the walls of the
life making us.  Who sleeps on who's
shoulder, and who is whose mother, father;
who fell asleep wearing the weight
that pulls down fruit, planets, gazes, until our bodies
harden into place.  Who will
step out of that shell first, raise
their eyes, send their hand across the darkness,
cutting it open into light, and gather
the other in their arms, drawing our love as a circle--
never perfect,
never not.