Lost to the Body

by Adam Horovitz

Lost to the Body

A tide curls through us,

salts our tongues with words,

the urgency of their unknotting.


There's a pornographic opera

nightingales sing locked

in the wine cupboard.


The hushed laughter of women

gives us the library. The river is ours

their absence tells us,


its water delicate

as gorse flowers. The farmyard's

silvering. Trees in shock of leaf.


A week lost to the body,

seed moon a hobby lantern

guiding us seaward


as we sow new names for spring.

© Adam Horovitz