the shape of everything (chapter 2)
your prayers cupped in my hand become smooth
penance no longer tastes sweet but burns
as it hits the back of my throat.
oil slicks around the last ice cube in the first drink
of the day and evening is an unwanted stranger
who steals the memory of your voice.
one night the touch of your fingertips on my chest
will be forgotten and replaced with the scratch
of wind against glass.
I would give up every sin and dull the edge of each
day that passes in order to learn to dream more
with less and less of you.