if you could hear what I hear

if you could hear what I hear
the breathing and warm yellow
the light and heat and mix of air
the soft sound between the breaths

then I could hear what you hear
the lying close and touch of night
the falling whistle of the log
the light and rumble and old coat of life

and if you could hear all this and me
then we could measure space
between these breaths
and make a half a whole and all we hear


things that block light
trees mostly
absorb me
like soft butter
on hot toast

the heat
takes a minute
comes inside
crawls in the gut

a hunger
for something out there
something that’s missing

a thirst
between summer sky
and dry dirt
on which
I barely can walk