a thrush nightingale gives us the smoky,dark wine of his song. I prefer his namein my tongue, ööbik. öö, meaning night.the moon does not rise when you touchmy skin, asking to be touched. askingwhy I do not sing. you drink fromthe water well of my mouth and I saythis is not a song, it is your facedrinking your reflection.still, your hands, their nocturnes.the furrows of a tree you wear. to desiredeeply is to be full of sparrows, but sexis a ghost. I am caressed and caressedfor I am younger than dust, but I amwaiting for a promise: if I cannot touch,or be touched, the earth will still want me.I am trying to listen. when a bird losesits hearing, its ability to sing decaysin a single day. I am trying. I carryyour weight for a while, a crackin the marble of my ribcage. in the morninglight weighs as much as a cygnet—like the birds, I only kiss the black barkof a tree and my heart is not a wind-uptin bird, it sings for no one, onlyfor the sky it marries.