and i have no proof
            except the night

   the toil of the crickets


            echoing

                  our tongues drinking    pitch dark
through barren slides

        
           the perch of a branch

slurs a shadow it’s a thing i will think about forever

the moths sipping
                  our noses these miracles
        stone and salt

& the river behind our house

           silently aching
for the flowers we
once offered