Sentence

I crawl back   he unpacks his tools

oils the wooden handles    rinses the metal

fragrant   his thighs fragrant his sneer

koi & eternity inked on his skin     an ecstatic

blue a bewildered green

some wounds are ovals some wounds are opals

the ears of a white wolf pivot    toward the moon

I flee now & then    alone in the desert for months

a nomad in a kimono of pressed-together dust

beautiful his throat his words    even more beautiful

“it’s my turn to ask for a bit more from you”

he likes it when I bleed    strangers once

gently he hammers gold into a sentence   gently

the sentence enters me