Equation
after Yevgeny Zamyatin
Here’s love uncurled, its delicate initial
turning loose like a strand under
the knot of a sweaty limb, exact
and exacting. In the distance
a phone throbs, expectant
in full ring.
And there’s the other, at the door,
unseen but present – like water
assuming the form of its receptacle,
nine-faced; his veil is the tomb
as you recognize the dove
at the window sill.
Now I lay the two side by side:
they fit into each other’s grooves. |