come spilling through the valley to which I've seat,
in her silver blinking, unclouded, eye and lashes shedding
rays of raindrops like shower beads across and into
the furrows and curves of skin bound
too tightly to shoulders that sink and unwind
like thousand year louvers to a bedroom
in rivers running long and twine like and distorting
into steam heat to rise and press against
the undersides of her stomach and ribs and chin
and catch in the fine hairs of her forearms
like breaths of glass and seeds of vision,
that I have.
