anima

low to the ground
and keen to breathe you through my mouth

spilling along the bottom of the doorway
printed on towels, handles, and sheets

it crescendos down through hallways
missing you now and pacing

interpreting your times:
either like the eager beating of the thrush
you’ve been
or, the complacent pulse of the nest hen

you are home, i know first
by your smell
brimming by warm cultures

those bottoms of your feet
when you have gone long walking and
in your genitals as you sit
such long hours on top of them

every inhalation
deeper lost in me
the equator calls
becoming me somehow

low and heavy near the ground
the keeper of your smell