Durga, VII

I miss you most under
the new moon. the stars
sing sweetly to me but
they don't show me their
blue shoulder the way
you do. they are the sparks
but I'm pining for the fire.
when I stop being busy:
that loneliness like
a mountain scooped out
of my belly. I've filled it
with dirt and other terrible
things. please forgive me.
this close to dawn all I desire
is the warm circumference
of your legs, the way your
hand like a spent leaf
lands on my chest. Durga,
I am a man of small things.
my heart is an idiot.
the plain air of your breath
will fill me up.