Breath Falls and Is Not Stone

 
Sensing at last that the voice
of the soul is not the eyes,
but the lines beneath them,
this map of falling flesh,
I cover these streets,
footfalls on voiceless stone.
I think of Rodin, the bright windows,
the statues in the high room,
of stone about to speak.
 
Somewhere, lover, you lie,
senses disarrayed,
stoned dreams upon the brain,
the streets beneath your eyes
softened by sleep. If I listen
I can hear you breathing,
each breath a weightless tone
that rises from your lips.
 
At dawn in the alleyway I wait.
Light descends like a plumb line,
breath falls and is not stone.
You awaken beyond the dream,
turn back the sheets,
step within the lines of day.
Your eyes, like mine, are squinting,
so crinkled against this brightness.

(Appeared in Berkeley Poets Cooperative)