In the white silence of your comb
glistening between the strands of your
pines creak in the distance
quiet rustlings of a waking forest
tall growth and mist.
Both unseen but felt
on your skin,
and under your feet.
Moss breathing out the names of past lovers.
Who has lain with me here?
Comfortably silent and full
belly round as the moon, writing new notes
for her night orchestras.
The discipline of peace and full mouths.
The addiction to air.
Fill yourself with me
and try to sing.