heather earnhardt

As though touching her
might make him known to himself,

as though his hand moving 
over her body might find who
he is, as though he lay inside her, a country

his hand’s traveling uncovered,
as though such a country arose
continually up out of her
to meet his hand’s setting forth and setting forth.

And the places on her body have no names.
And she is what’s immense about the night.
And their clothes on the floor are arranged
for forgetfulness.

“Dwelling,” Li-Young Lee

“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.”

Sylvia Plath

Bug and Goose talked for hours,

endless hours.

They talked of the art of being good, of falling stars, the arc of a sparrow.

They talked of loss and love.

Bug and Goose spoke of secret things,

things that only they themselves could understand.

He whispered these secrets in her ear.

© Heather L. Earnhardt 2011