Lying in bed I think about you, 
your ugly empty airless apartment 
and your eyes. It’s noon, and tired 
I look into the rest of the awake day 
incapable of even awe, just 
a presence of particle and wave, 
just that closed and deliberate 
human observance. Your thin fingers 
and the dissolution of all ability. Lay   
open now to only me that white body, 
and I will, as the awkward butterfly, 
land quietly upon you. A grace and 
staying. A sight and ease. A spell 
entangled. A span. I am inside you. 
And so both projected, we are now 
part of a garden, that is part of a   
landscape, that is part of a world 
that no one believes in.