Demiurge

Her round eyes cut the world into diamonds
that fall into her hands as if they were clouds
drifting through a meteor shower and settling
on my chest. There, beating deeper than a heart,
a pulsing, a rumble of bone, muscle, and skin
stretches over and over itself. It flows like the waters

of her palms over my eyes as she culls
me from my thoughts, to her breast. I can't tell,
as I begin to sleep, the difference between
my voice and the voices in my dream. Every time
I snap awake I hear an echo from the other side,
a word hung in the air like a bell swinging
over the intermittent silence of the bed.

She rolls over and wraps around my arm
as I slip it across her side, up her chest,
under the soft curl of her neck. We share
the space we've too long kept within us,
the hope and fear of something bigger
than us both, an addiction to useless sadnesses.

I love the way she smiles with her eyes closed,
her face in the dark glowing with it's own
moonlit calm, how her body dances
in its own stillness as she lies on my couch
reading Faulkner. It seems as though she is
wrestling the equation of the world,
mechanisms of the clock, the passionate
cataclysm of a heart between beats
and lurching into another cycle of blood.