Green Lacewing

There is a metaphor
which
I struggle to think of
like
pulling water
out of
sand
But that isn't the one,
not one at all
There is a pattern
of
seeing and
of longing
with which I
derive my
understanding of
you

What was it like for her, to be next to you for so long, to be sorted amid your creatures, each of her bones counted and catalogued?  What was it like for her to be the subject of your turning, the sight triggering your half-smiles, the slab of rock brushed by your fingertips?  To lay listening to your sleeping breath, exhaling directness and inhaling intention, as the sun set behind your head

there is
a metaphor
with which I
may understand
your turning