Nightly we refold our bodies.
The origami of our hands,
scissored feet, a forehead
between shoulder blades make us
a sort of fish or blossom.
He gives me his mouth
of milk and sweet,
shades my eyes from the sight
of dying sparrows,
offers no fragile flowers
or sparks of love
but renders these small stones of truth
they sit good and gray
in the palm of my hand.