The first thing I do when the door behind me closes is strip
down to my undies, to flesh, to bone.
(Not really true, but I’d like it to be.)
Everything’s physical, and the running and chasing of minds
over matter, its streams and hills and its sunken valleys,
dirties my clothes and my patience, the clean white arrow of my youth,
till my will is jagged and its ears try hearing left and right in chorus
like a dog caught between two silent whistles.
Everything’s physical, and I tumble down mountainsides
and writhe like a sail on the quicksilver sea.
That’s why I, panting, love to fall into the dark nonbreeze
of words so large they sound like silence in this room,
and why I like
and attend to the sound of your breathing.