I long for an immigrant in my bed. One who is unafraid of knots. One who will arrive with hail on his eyelash. One whose memories are muddy as mine. One who feels the dirt in his marrow. One who guesses the words of his own father’s dialects. One whose skin leaps to touch mine. One who follows the floodlights north to me. One who discovers a hideaway, crouching with his palm above his throat where it’s warmest. One who trespasses arboretums soaked in manic light. I long to measure his body by its immateriality. Its ability to seep through borders. Someone formed from a womb of passage. Together we will incubate, one sleep, one tic, one uncombed head.
Too far from winter,
The distance to each face grows.
Quiet, said my wish.