Suppose I say the hardest thing to say.
In a famous drawing two black silhouettes
gaze at each other, noses almost touching.
The viewer looks away, then glances back
and sees a different picture, a white chalice,
blank space between the faces seeping forward
to claim her eye. It's the profiles or the cup,
never both at once. The space between
two people—between us—can ebb or surge,
insistent as high tide seizing the shore.
Your fingers graze my chin, your body lowers
to press against my upward-arching body.