I have uneven arms.

You’ll have to hold
          hands with me to tell it, though.

Left side, right side, left side again:
Weigh them like the Feather of Maat
          while we walk out from the Magnus
          and search for kissing shadows.

Boxing, I say.

Boxing?

Threw it out of joint mid-fight. Had to finish.

oh.

Oh. Oh. Oh.
A dove bends fatima from its locust potting:
          speaking is, at best, translation.

Before we kiss I breathe your breath
          so that I am filled with your wine darkness
                    and
          have this shield of air for when
          the high Caucasus beshabar rattles
          the flaps of my tent.