from “The Unquarried Blue of Those Depths Is All But Blinding,” <br /><br />There are some things we just don’t talk about—<br />Not even in the morning, when we’re waking,<br />When your calloused fingers tentatively walk<br />The slope of my waist:<br /> How love’s a rust-worn boat,<br />Abandoned at the dock—and who could doubt<br />Waves lick their teeth, eyeing its hull? We’re taking<br />Our wreckage as a promise, so we don’t talk.<br />We wet the tired oars, tide drawing us out.