Boston

forty nine.

Is this exhaustion?

And of what do I dream?

(Do we dream?)

We walk always in that head of yours,

Crouch behind the eyes and look at the

Ground that way.

Drag our head through sky.

I know very little of myself I think,

These days.

I am changing too quick

And too well.

But I know much of you.

Is that true? Is it just that I

Know the texture of your skin--

As though it were my own?

(I crave it still)

Then this dense inhalation.

Out there 

Standing on snow, 
Out there

On the steps that lead into your apartment.

Inhalation that freezes my throat
That rips at my lungs,

And the breathing out.
(It pushes just past my lips

Before stopping.)

Out here,

How vivid the blue light looks.

I crave you still.