the dark-vowelled birds

I.

Chill summer. When it is bluish morning
and you are still awake.

Cutting peaches to replace sleep,
with sticky fresh hands
and the soft and hungry skin still holding on.
Slightly damp hair.

Warblers are opening in the high trees,
above the house,
above the theory of measures.

II.

I am a beggar of sound.
If only there was a glimpse
where desire was idle

and idleness the bold red accent
in the window frame where the sill
met the other color that had no name

and name the food
that we ate while talking to each other,
probing for history, dancing with language,
then drowsily waking, each foot dropping
to the ground

and ground the hurt of age
the terror or unterror of each moment
bending against a shore of unknowns.