He reads her poems
in the dark
of their small room
his jaw mashing the alphabet
into the shapes
of careful imagining
the slope of their fatigue is steep
but he reads on
the way you can drive
and swallow miles
with no memory
of the road
her head rests against his arm
it flutters every time he turns the page
like lying next to a cat
dreaming cat things
then she is asleep
then he
the air quiet
the book on its hands and legs
like a tent
it’s a game they play
the chance
they might exit
just once
on the same word
a springboard
into the same dream
the two of them
stitched together
in the beyond.