Slowly, you undo your breathing.
Seething with sleep, withering leaves
bunched in your palm.
Grip of great solitude.
Solidarity in lumps.
There was the basting exercise you exalted
and understated the prunes.
Seven moons moaning.
I ask you to wreathe
my neck in gilt feathers.
Truths weaken. Blank and bleary,
we become tundra.