Somewhere, a mouthful of stardust
collapses into little clouds of silence.
In this darkness, my arms extend
toward your shrinking shadow
like pine needles on lonely hills
await the touch of soft moonlight.
I open my hands and cup my mouth,
your breath rustles within me
in a storm on scale five.
The roof over my window collects
the nightly downpour dancing
in a cuplike dent at the far right corner.
This silly symphony of wet midnights in July,
of the mating of frogs and the bleeding sky,
of insects trilling and moments that fly,
so full of sounds stark against
the empty bed and your coarse pillow.
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