imitations

I’ve always loved the hidden marks
In old cutlery and in
The silent, stoic bones of your face,
Waiting to be touched
Or to be hit:

Both just different paths to the same place
Of yearning
For more flesh on flesh,
An understanding that words, at last,
Have lost their passions.

You follow the sun with your eyes
Cast it down to the lake,
A golden burn on your lips
An element of drowning, to be preserved
In the nature of these things.