Click Page 23
The string between us quivers, umbilicus
we only dreamed was cut. Between, an ache,
pulsing blood, meat and bone of a snared bird.
Both sun and moon take the high way;
when the traveler in Firenze wraps your wrist
in colored string, when the old piazza fountain
nets the humid mass of your hair, why is the moon
orange, why does it rival the sun--
we know the string is bound to fray.