From a Room

You can scramble across
the bed, back arched in solitary oblivion
where a hand once went flat along your spine
tilting up at the cheeks and right
into the air in a room without words.
These marvelous late nights with
nothing so much as the empty trucks
banging away and the ruthless flow
of blood in the artillery of my mind.
A cavity in my skull with some electricity
and a brain and some sugar making
it all just so ridiculous when you
think of it this way. So much for intimacy.
In the bath of your tired light I wither,
or wander, or something that sounds like wind when
the word hisses from your mouth. Flicking my tongue
at the prison of my teeth or while
washing your face you think of the ocean.