You color all. Is this longing?
Or private. Is it private to speak
in the morning, the birdsong
like knives? We sit on this bench
while this wind swirls and billows.
This setting is love, yet we sit on
this bench, yet we listen to birdsong.
This color, your brain, which is bluer
than water. I touch it, your brain,
which is cooler than water. I wonder,
your brain, when it falters will it be
so cold? We buffet one another
with our bodies, with our slackened
hearts. I put myself in it, your body,
which aches. I put myself in it, your
brain, which is cooler than water.
[from The Boston Review]