Let neither of us speak.
Language is a dirty trick
on days when what I need will not be named.

I try, and you, the loyal waiter
keen to please, you try,
but I don’t know the words for all my want.

I ask, I think, for the flaming dessert,
something sweet and volatile.
You courteously set yourself on fire.

That’s not what I want.
I’ll stop asking altogether,
let my foot propel me in a heavy, gentle arc.

The body will act without being told.
Our lungs engage the sweetness of the air,
the fall sky and its more than blue that doesn’t need a name.

Stay with me
and we will float till dark,
then on into the quiet of the night.