There is nothing left in the bed
but great long sheets of light covered over
by what night lets in; here is nothing.
No words flame,
we come illiterate,
we come apart-
We come inside each other, separate.
I don’t know how touch becomes a boundary.
The stars peer down.
My mirror waits for morning.
In my head I make a list of the colors of flowers-
I make a list, all night long, of every lost thing.