I hear them, my neighbors, through the bathroom wall, as

horsehair plaster

won’t keep secrets. He says I love you, and I wonder, does

he want her because

he loves her, or does he love her because she lets him enter

through her side

door. She will give just that much of herself, to stretch her

pale body across

the dark bright space between them. He asks for a picture,

to prove this is

happening, but only memory can capture warm water

glowing bioluminescent

on a clear new moon night, giddy echoes in two languages,

single cells

that shimmer at the ends of dark hair, brighten across

chests with each breath,

and, along up-stretched arms, form constellations from sea

to sky and back.