It wasn't as bad       as I had imagined. No magma                               no lava

looping down the side of the mountain             or bright singe breaking

through earth.                   In the fissured kitchen mugs tapped      against each other –

a glittery sound             not unlike            jewelry, teeth –

when I fell       to the ground I saw       your face in the way

one does             when disoriented             by sound, a high-

pitched frequency            that rang out                   your mouth moving

with language-form       basking in the weight      of word             on tongue your

name sitting there       with me your face            illuminated

by the tap tap tap            of the fused-out                               lamp your hands

that find             my vertebrae       all lined up marble-hard

a formation       at once heat-seeking       and cold there was

an idea I couldn’t             remember       couldn’t hold

in my head       couldn’t find the shape                  of it.

When you hook a hand through my bicep            there it is

the brief             relief      the sanded texture

of your fingers bringers             of the ordinary

of what will give form             to the formless.