In the Co-habitation Dream

we read to each other all day and into the night,
even from outside the bathroom door
until the syllables run out and quiet
is no longer what we run from but lean into
like a palm in the small of the back, fingertips
on a forearm, a cupped hand to a jawline,
which is enough, except when it isn’t
and we hold hands, our fingers, beginning
with the smallest, test the heat of each other’s
need, interlace the cleavage between them
as each knuckle bends forward to embrace
its twin and that is enough, except when it isn’t
and the pillow under my head becomes dented,
warm and I have to turn it over to the cool side.

Bo

cannot see the thunder,
finds it when the hair
bristles on his ears,
tastes lightning through
a black nose, huddles
close to a warm thigh
his glazed eyes call home

the mountain

has carved its hills
and valleys into me,
rock by tree by waterfall,
the laughter of guitar
strings, the whisper
of words as they echo
inside my throat, the wind
picking up, carrying
fingers along steep curves,
the taste of memory
to the back of the eye.