Your dream-faces have visited me since leaving—
not in vague, amorphous memory, but in macro-lens closeness; hot and pulsing.
Last night I watched foundation separate on your cheek, mottling pink skin wet with tears.
Downy hairs haloed your jawline.
they visit me too, the outline of that which I can’t make sense
we are on a balcony with a sliding door
tenement blocks stretch a grid to dawn
but i can’t see faces
night stars behind the lamplight
and circling, a suspect cartography of moth bodies on the wing.
Undone by the prospect of the infinite depths of infinite subjectivities, could you just
Tell me how you see the future
Open space or drowning?
Please could you just
Anonymity and intimacy fold into each other