Treading

The roosters are pecking the shadows

in gravel, crowing over what the sun takes;

their gaits throwing up small tantrums of dust,

hocking their sickles to the grass—

they lie like attenuated oil slicks.

Snowed-in in a room of white

where I don’t dare move, a cradle

beneath your head, a bookend heavy

as wet sand, soaked in the drone

of my percussions; your mouth rooting, rooting.

How long will you seek comfort

through the memory of me—our being one

from your beginning, my beginning?

The roosters tread closer on their route

through the columns of condos,

ticking their spurs like clock hands,

twitching their combs, telegraphing: I forget, I forget.

What do I do? Count the popcorns

on the ceiling, fall asleep too? The roosters

dit and dah.

                       It is all aging

as you crow your breaths and shift to slide

away to a body separate.