Encamp

When I speak to your bones
I want nothing but the circulation
of peace - tender junctures

skin is wound around
the moon in brightest bloom
running like the lives of saints

I hum my words
like deep swum fish
and a tone

from Herculaneum's spectres
playing through
your skeleton.

Here I sit like ore
in the stone,
a hundredweight pace

you sit with me at night
and light a lamp to
wait for the wet world.