Through Line

I want to be done with pain, 
especially the kind that tethers
us to each other by the accidents
of blood. Which is not to say we are 
heartlessness, nor mirrors cloven 
from the same remote glacier— 
We are only blind  instinct pushing 
against these walls of earth. 
We've heard starlings caught in the eaves, 
seen the moon wear an aspect of raw pyrite, 
the beach hemmed with sea grass. 
Everything has an edge we walk or touch. 
Last night I dreamt I took your face 
in my hands. In the dream, you let me.