But in the opaque dark of the body,
Where we find ourselves and our story,
Such as it is, the slow old blood does its work.
She unbuttons his shirt, lays her hands
Against his chest, feels
His heart utter its simple repetitious word.
It refers to her. It refers her to herself.
That’s what she’s doing here, that’s why her tongue
Moves itself in his mouth, that’s why the dark
It moves in refuses to lighten to the syllable
That rises blind in the body: name, name, name.