In the knell
we looked for words.
The knock of a fork —
nothing.
Time tossed intimacy
around the kitchen
and readied on the range
a rabbit’s red meat.
How could music presume
to mimic the sea?
The cuff itself
wrapped and pounding.
If we tried to climb —
if we searched for a ladder
our kisses made the collar,
forgot us
all the same. Words
for a while wandered,
came back to dance at us
winded—
swallowed.
I couldn’t
believe it hurt.