Sonnet, Unraveling

When we reach the crest [your hair in my drain,
the pillow’s soft valley] of the dune we find
more sand. The sunlight laying itself
across the raspberries, [the way the mind
loves shadow puppets] across the lake’s dip
and tumble: here [in the wind: your eyelashes,
your open mouth] even our skin is hot [like
a planet, like an asteroid drifting out of its orbit]
to the touch. Look at the edge, you say, lifting
a sweat-slick finger [my thumb trailing along
your t-shirt’s hem] to the horizon. I look,
[and the mirrors, so many mirrors!] see
the water [think: feverdream, think: none of this
is real] and sky for the first time in weeks
two distinct things. After the rain, [outside
the rain, the night and the rain] I think, there
is this: just our two bodies [a kind of crucifixion,
these arms stretching outward] painting themselves
with salt, [the pink at the back of my throat:
you touched it] the world pursing its blue lips
in our direction. I shift my weight [the way
flesh spills over, opens like a tulip] from one foot
to the other and I am suddenly falling, [when
I sneezed you used to call it cute] tumbling
toward the beach. When I reach for your hand, [think:
of love and wonder, these too shall pass] I touch only
air. Of course [this orchid in my chest, this pigeon-heart
of mine] there you are: looking inland, counting rabbits.