Curled solitude:
You are folded
like heads and hands mid-prayer
as you lean into the green
through all your smallness and brevity
taking your time before
time takes you.
What do you do
against the dew?—
slow, fragile decay of heat—
To you,
is it tears, puddle, or ocean?
Is my thirst a place where you drown?
Is my warmth a place where you shiver?
Is my gentleness your violence?
Your mouth:
teeth and jaw, open and hungry—
how do you use it?
Are my confessions your silence?
Are my exhales your feast?
My solitude, my morning dew, my mouth
with you
against green and time—
Is this envy? Tribute? Division? Union?
Are you my antithesis or
are you my mirror?
-Iris