I look for the root—the beginning of us—
	(as if ‘us’ could claim, or explain, what we are)
and I extract starlight from this silence, my hands
covered with the rest
	of reason, a darkness I do not see the point of,
my defenses never tiring, a reflex born of loving you.  

It isn’t freeing, to seek
beyond the surface of the things that bind us,
entwine us, smoke and gravity between the pressing sheets,
a revealing collision of folly and desire:
		how have I arrived at this window,
all at once looking out, looking in?

I sift through the pleasure of these multiple disasters,
knowing I cannot abide by the rest, 
the lesser earthquakes that shudder in judgment,
the lavish regrets I once owned, but lost
for the better.