In the night, things we can’t see

 
are always testing their acoustics.
A bird looks underneath 

every cloud to see 
which one hides the echo of rain.
To the spot where my love dips 

his fingers at the base of my spine,
he gives the name valley. To the bones 
that ladder and curve below 

the skin, I give the name 
cathedral. Which is to say the eye 
stumbles, trying to pass known

limits; trying to track a path to far-
away constellations. But I admire 
how a blue and white 

porcelain bowl remains solid while still 
allowing perforation by light; the length
of time conveyed by one mouth to another. 

We answer as soon as a horizon cracks open,
trying to remember how any kind of brightness 
finds its way, though it takes a while to get here.