living on opposite ends

she mouths Rilke
the way angels
speak to god

perspires the culture
and inspiration
writers die for

and knows
this poem
is not finished
without her eyes
giving it
the only scan
that matters

my hours pass
     in moments
          of her voice

tangling with mine

see; children playing footsy
see; Bukowski and Martinelli
see; her words in my mouth
see; America and China

she's awake
eating steamed bread
and fulfilling her dreams
when I'm asleep

and resting
when I'm trying
to discover mine

between splashes
of the desire
to conquer
the minor details
between us