To listen you work this bowl
and each evening crouch
with your lips in all directions
wrapped around a warming spoon
near, nearer to the side she slept on
filled with sharp corners
and lower your forehead, let the soup
cool – you swallow a bed, are fed
on windswept fires, the sound
that has become the mouth
you’re drowning in – arm over arm
making room for her and lower.
You lick and each finger straightens
though it’s this seedy monument
that’s weakening, leaning down
to hear where the wind is coming from
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