From “The Unquarried Blue of Those Depths Is All But Blinding,” There are some things we just don’t talk about—Not even in the morning, when we’re waking,When your calloused fingers tentatively walkThe slope of my waist: How love’s a rust-worn boat,Abandoned at the dock—and who could doubtWaves lick their teeth, eyeing its hull? We’re takingOur wreckage as a promise, so we don’t talk.We wet the tired oars, tide drawing us out.