Our Room

At the end of the bed, I count
shadows moving- one of them

in the shape of a flower, bent
towards the window. Another

dances the wall to the rhythm
of music- silent, naked and shoeless-

I wonder, what breathe impales them,
whose thoughts give them life?

You stir next to me- a ripple
of water whose core began

with a small stone thrown, like
flickering light that defines

the shadows I recite
from the darkness of our bed.

I think of hard things that
create soft things, of absorption-

the warmth of a body as it lies
still and burning, whose skin gleams

like tiny moons, gentle and silver
in a sky not unlike our room.