Stuttering

a rudimentary bridge
in the mouth—the way a hand
never does

enough. What is
sufficient. I lick everything
I can touch

because I’m young and things are beautiful.
I am not a universe or sparrow

lost on the wind. Always,
always, always
expanding.


Heat in the water,
heat between us,
a stuttering bridge—
beneath which sediment takes
                              a long time
                        getting where it wants to go.