There Is No Day Here

I will cough on you—

we will share the sound disease

in the no one hears it.

But really, the rocks & trees

are persons coughing with us.

I recall how your back can arch,

a bridge between our lungs.

I can’t believe the words that hang

like murders between us.

You put them in syntax with tire irons

and a cattle press.

When my lungs stop rasping—

                it means I don’t lust you anymore.