In the still morning air,
churches rise, stone buttresses,
the bones of saints.
You finger each of my words,
the click of rosary beads.
Outside our window,
wagons clack, sheets flap,
squares of white, windows to something purer.
We sleep curved around each other,
the cool taste of spoons.
Only there is no longer anything
for us to eat. I slip away from your arms.
But I can only give you this, a light so clear
we don't have to be who we are.