My grandfather said, “We could go underwater,”
we were going to take the boat out, sail to the edge of the world
fantasising about Indian clouds, Polish maps, Dead magazines on French desks
but the starry night loses an axle, veers off
the earth trembles, sending up a few ghosts
we mourn as one
it has been a while since you explained
your fingers at my throat and all your grace
so I left the letters on your desk
you are a torch
though not haunting me anymore with your teeth, anymore with your hair.
you stir up a hunger for your own bones.