I see you once
a month,
the calendar
like a net I sink
my hands into.
I know how to let
two small fish
feed five thousand,
how to kneel
at the stained glass
of a gill: our forks
tangling, my lips
at your throat.
Alone, I multiply
snatches
of brightness
until a night
catches us
not yet frightless,
& the last thing
I see is your eyes’
golden lattice,
blue breaking
behind it.