A Little Something Something

While crossing the Grand Canyon, I find myself wondering:
how many times can you tongue a word
before it begins to unbraid; yields to
splinter into your denim like wicker?

I will never be a whistler, ever-haunted
by some lingering something
a physicality that clings to my clothing, like cigarette air
or goo-sappy needles from blue spruce
on the couch in late January.

This condition is grave–
the chasm between us so mindful of its
own definite shape;

mine is a slow something that spreads
like the pooling of blood on a flat surface, deep and
seeping over time And yours
hungry; deviant as a stream in winter
fleet-full, feverish and darting just
beyond the surface,

barely contained by your own skin.