we are, I am certain

It is not quite four o’clock on the morning

the yellow light coming in that one corner window

from a wayward porch down the block and crickets

still in the throes of their nocturnal chorus. But this reedy hour

is thick with promise, and here the night is broken into two halves:

question and answer, your arm reaching around my shoulders,

fingertips calling my name until my lips find themselves waking

at the rim of your collarbone. And here is where I lose track of the picture,

the narrative slipping from the room like a silk gown,

like the underwear you coax from my hips and nudge to the edge

of the bed, to the floor. We are, I am certain, a single body then,

one long muscle emptied of its muscle, leaning toward the other

as if in prayer, with no one, not even God, as our witness.