—the times I slept alone, dreaming my slack

body over you, your winged shoulders spread, your back
carried the weight of my body—

of the horizon. My trembling hands translated
your form into a winged Assyrian bull,
a support of my desire, as a figure
of myth, circling, or a broken recording:
Beethoven’s sonata number fourteen,
opus twenty-seven in an endless loop, coursing
through the blood, in the head, repetitious, a lean
fragmentation of a longer body of work,
unlimited chorus, lush, a starling lung-ing
into the night with its song, transporting
its desire beyond impulse, the voice plunging