Benjamin Gantcher


I somehow amble into the bright bay window
trailing your sleepy pheromone tag
like warm flannel
and settle down at this rocking table

awash in early weather
as it dismantles the last
precincts of air
rummaging this curtain of nerve and capillary

four flights up in light so frail
it feels like kindness
the beastly eye will soon, too soon burn off
and busy-ness damage the odor

you manufacture as you doze,
snuggled in the bedclothes that I harbor
under the eaves, mixing self with self
as humors and sensations

cruise the hollows,
pulling notes like clay pipe
on the roof—a dove

                                So goes the moon moon moon