you make homes for me in myself with your tongue
kitchen erupting from stall showers
a cook in the ceiling banging pots against
electrified grid of sky

you made a home for me under
a tiny field
that stretched under foot-thumped blocks
but held out their rhythm
with a kiss in the soil
with five hands inside each finger
you hollowed out the places that I would need
to be empty when the world began to fill me up

you make a movie using my eyes
you mount them on a tripod of flower stalks
the air with its shivers a movie of unseen dust
with my eyes you make a movie
and we're mounted on a tripod that's your body with one
limb impossibly holding the top of my head
to keep it from falling off into the final scene