It’s coming.

There is an extra bone in my back,
just at the top of the neck,
and the bone is made of light.

As your perfume anticipates you,

your horizon is a stroke of hands.

My heart is still young. It’s still opening,
like a flower. And it won’t close, it can’t,
not while you’re near me —
you hold the petals apart.

Even to the night and the cold.

Even to the moon and the seeds.

With your long fingers and your want.

Even to the dust and stones.

You take the bone of light out of my neck,
and I gasp.

You put back a bone of darkness,

in which rain approaches.

As a fuzz and shimmer of the needle in the groove
before the music.

Before the darkness.

Before the music.

Before the rain.