And in the afternoon, the hardness
ascends from thighs. And this is a time
for telling what’s here amongst us four.
Within the growing and these ventricles that
Surrender their girths to throats and tendencies--
I hold his cap to my mouth,
And my chin winces.
Eyes wish this would last—this
Don’t go. Don’t go. Repeating itself
Beneath the root of the tongue
as if the syllables
Alone could manufacture time.
This is it, then: the bone’s prayer.
My face has his scent.