The words that pass between them
pressing hot arms
in funny angles
smell it on her wrist, a divinity of trivia and
rolled secrets, ready to inhale
death curling the corners
touch fevered forehead to clay floor womb
all the footsteps regressed
We are too late to undo
our indentation
it presses down
like dowel swinging thickly against undertow
will measure weight of air
and your truth
offered by word
Ask me
where is the mark?
repeated on inside wrist
past pulse, circling back upon itself
infinity you said
mine the arms wound around
soft value
memories taking form in brief coats of ice
a sorcerers palace
to divine
is no promise ever