Some nights, as the starry clouded hours lay with me,
I think of those who lay their aging bodies,
unshowered and uncradled,
into the empty pocket of their machine-worn sheets,
and then of myself, spray cleansed
and coiled like electric cooling in the flat folds of my quilt
to keep my bathed body from the damp of the dew,
that soaked my linens closer to midnight.

There is a wandering in my flesh,
that keeps me from silence,
the pieced pastorals of my mind.
My organs are hungering
for hairy arms and a bed
in Brooklyn. I call my lover, apologize.
He instructs: turn off the lights, lie down, close your eyes.
 
I say: goodnight. He says: goodnight.
And as he falls 
to heavy, luscious breathing,
the static on the phone becomes steady rainwater,
glistening orange and city as it drops,
sounding steps, high and ringing in wash colored pavement.
Heavy inhales, exhales,
June rain on my thirsting skin.