In the fleshed light of evening, my face grows thin beneath your touch.
On our bedside table, grape hyacinth, black-eyed susan, cut from the garden; emptied
glass tipped on its side; paperbacks' furrowed spines. Each night you kneel
at the tub, squeeze the cloth over my neck, aching with heat. I wake
with your hand, in sleep trembling over the sill of my back:
unreconciled, holding me here.