The sheets on my bed curl up around me,
unsticking from the mattress and kissing around my shoulder blades,
the line of my jaw. I'm just a drop of milk in this place.
Some thing out there gets to see into our houses.
Graces the block, seeing through our roofs,
past our clothes and sheets and ribs,
deep into the flesh of our heart.
Some one sees us there, laying quiet and unafraid.
He sees us, thinking we are naked, but he sees our shrouds
of secrets covering our private parts.
He knows what hesitation smells like. So do I.
He smells our hair. It smells like pine,
the longing of chimes
is wafting from our hearts.
And we have been seen.