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