The bed a wreck of first coupling,

And morning shadow

Slipped dishabille around you.

You would sleep,

Eyes tracing some trigonometry of dreams,

I suppose

Surveying distances.

What nervous sculptures

Would we chisel

With bare hands from flesh?

What equations of synaptic import

Would we resolve

With tangled tongues and skin?

What middle kingdom of the heart

Would we frame in 

With rough lumber and desire

For mutual habitation?