The dripping of ice
is enough to drive me mad–
a wet cave floor slick
with memories is
nothing to swear by. He does
laugh sometimes, but can
not grin. I dream of
the world outside our stone walls,
built right underneath
purple mountains with
misty air or perhaps a
gangling forest
filled to the brim with
busy insects. My growing
mind is filled with things
I am not sure are
real. All I know are reaching
water streams and the
way his eyes perceive
my figure. I am sure more
coves hold other bits
of me, but he will
never let go of my sun-
lust hands. Some days I
do not know which of
us is guilty of capture.
I always try to
hold him an arm’s length
away, to pretend to find
meaning without him.