A film of mist clings to the storm windows
as the thunder gets pocketed and carried away
in the rain’s dark overcoat. A good reading night—

car wheels amplified by the flooded street,
leaf-clogged gutters bailing steadily, constant
motion beyond my walls echoing

my body’s gyroscopic stillness. Sonnevi says
Only if I touch do I dare let myself be touched,
and that familiar and somewhat terrifying curtain

of reading slips around me, pinning sound
to the room’s lost corners, pinning the room
to an emptying sky. I’m in the glacial grooves

of Sonnevi’s words as he makes love
and listens to Mozart in a spare apartment,
now reawakens to her voice saying goodnight

so much that I couldn’t sleep I was elated.
His world slips through the waterfall
of language and hovers here, on the other side,

in my apartment, where we listened to jazz
showering with the door open, soft-boiled eggs
by the pink light of the Chinese takeout,

made love against the footsteps of morning
commuters, smoked cigarettes on the fire escape
right up to the minute you left. Here,

we are in this continuousness —our lives
dissolved in the channels of written lines—
every word I’ve read was in me before I read it.

They’re pulled from me like seconds
from the cistern of an unfinished life. Love’s
endless weathering moves the body

of our words: We read to understand
we’re not alone in it—we carry one another,
assuredly—
                                though we do this alone.