On mattresses, in the loose weave of sheets,
it’s what we left behind
where we slept, Sioux Falls, South Dakota
and points west.
Some nights, our lips just brushing
before a chaste sleep,
we must have left few,
a half million or so, say.
The vacancy sign stayed lit all night
while the prairies cooled.
The rumble of semis—doubles, triples—
was a soothing bass line.
The nights we made love, though,
as we did once
still glistening from the pool,
whole layers must have been lost,
perhaps billions of cells from knees,
heels, buttocks, breasts.
That must explain why
I was buoyant
‘
for days on end, some of my own
ink-blue darkness
shed in the night, like a snake’s
seasonal, discardable skin.
Photo By: Kenneth Moyle
