They have learned to feast
the way all blooms die out
return hours later, warmed

and under her breasts the low light
nourishes your fingers with shade
beginning again as twins—two tongues

two throats gutting each breath
and below it one mouth
is filled with the other

that has no place else to go
weighs so little, pulled close
for the flowers that have nothing to do

with your hands barely in place
grown huge from covering the weeks
the days, years—with your eyes shut

—with this dampness taught not to sleep
push nothing away—with each hand
overflowing its banks and closing.