Cara Fox

At night, watching

for a sign,

an invitation to slip
into the space between your breaths
and sleep.

Gone, the minutes
when tongue
turned tissue to stone to tissue again.

Fingers converse now in syllables,
twitch out a dream.

Desire for uniformity
in pulses
against the window,
my temples, your neck,

squeezes tight.

Broadening bleach of moonlight
shifts walls to the right.





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