Heavy dark limousines prowl
in fresh pelts of March rain:

we’ve broken the back of winter.
I count the pairs of bare legs.

Sometimes I wake next to you,
start-eyed, reaved open,

a ready ache stirring
beneath my left ribs. It will be

as they say it is, the city speaking
in tones meant only for hummingbirds,

the newly blind. When I’ve been tied
down before I liked the blue-

ribbon bruises, the imprint
of a slap. Visible crimes.

Now those times before dawn
I will your blinds

to show me words I’ll understand,
carry me to a pair

of arms that will never tire. I want dying
to mean an embrace by something

marvelous. I mean I want
to know I’m part

of what it’s been since
the beginning. Honey, I want to dream

one thing: just this heavy dark
where sometimes, improbable,

you turn. You search.
You find me.