The leaves have stopped their whispering.
It is time for you to wake.

You are firm in our white expanse of bed.
But you look lonely, very lonely.

Outside, sparrows wait on street corners
to be told: it is safe to go now.

Inside, I am taking a bath.
It will be your turn next.

2.

Each time we part ways,
we say the same things to each other.

You to me: ciao, bella.
Me to you: buona sera.

We do not speak Italian.
That is apparent from our accents.

3.

Tonight, the world is sleeping.
Let us disturb it.

Your fingers leap between my vertebrae like lovers.
By the time they reach my neck, they are strangers.

You promise each of them a star to name,
to pin to their lapels, and to call their own.

4.

When you told me you loves me,
I ate a hundred grapes right then.

I peeled the skins off with my teeth
and put them aside to make you a coat.

It is to protect you from Chicago winters.
And also from me.

5.

I am folding in on myself with heat.
My limbs have fused together.

Every man I have loved has hurried to leave me.
You will soon join them.

Us standing on the side of a mountain
in a field of purple laurel.

We are the masters of all we see!
What we do not see rules us in turn.

6.

The miles run beside us.
Some slice cleanly through my jaw.

You leave parts of you behind each time:
cologne bottles, photographs, your right eye.

The miles multiply like symphonies.
I am awake, dreaming.

I will shatter from the weight of them.
You will save the pieces to build temples.