her hand on the edge of my mattress
soft and curled round like pulled taffy.
zephyr to zero point gravity...right there, on the nape of my neck. 

and she holds me now as nest and fur and sweet-worm-earth pull to pin-points. 
and speaks to me of trees uptorn and vessels lost.
we are as sea of vapors 
as deep and cold 
distilled to a single line 
of pins and needles 
end to end.