How do I tell

the old ones

of my dreams

of silk:

 

the kind

that fall

from corn,

taut

on the pillowcase

as threads

on a loom,

and my fingers

the shuttle;

 

the kind

that drift

mulberry

under my palms

as we wash

side by side

in the dark waters

of a lake,

our heels

a swirl

in ink;

 

the kind

that breathe

to meet

the plunge

of my tongue

my ear

to a shell.

 

How do I speak

of the many long nights

spent

loving you

in silence?