[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/MorganSpying.mp3″]
They know by now about the bananas—
yellow stippled with brown spots
like cheetahs—
and our subsequent conversations
about who should step up
and bake a pie.
They know by now our music,
and can therefore construct an intimacy
both sacred and mythological.
They know what we say in our sleep
better than we do ourselves,
even as rain whispers
promises to the darkness,
even as the effervescence of The State bubbles
beneath supercharged fields of corn.
My love, they know where our misplaced keys are
and feel nothing.
They know the softest weather of our touching;
breath against skin,
mist from hill to hollow.
They know where the half-smoked joint is
in its sock cave
and the residue of our lips.
They know the sound of grapefruit
ripped from its hull
is me beside the speaker
trying to fuck with them.
They know the pith and citrus haze.
They know the sky the color of cigarette smoke,
the tides of night returning
to the shores of the moon.
My love, they know our hearts
a different red
than foxes like small fires
burning in the woods.