The fir needles prick my feet like kitten claws;
every room is sharp and green; my hands
smell of sandalwood, tree sap, lavender.
On the table you fall asleep at once.
Squalls pass over the sky of your face,
dreams of the dying, of hospitals,
auditoriums and admonitions:
I draw them out through my fingertips,
eat them like kale. Underneath
there is a sweetness.
The swell of your throat,
the camber of your chest under my palms,
your breathing that rocks my shoulders --
this longest night of the year lifts its muzzle,
sighs happily when it catches your scent,
curls up to sleep again till summer.