In the dark pockets
behind our knees
we hold whole books

see how they open
and close as we cross
the subway platform  

folding the blur of Broadway
the shush of the empty stage
into muscle memory

bending and straightening
closing and opening
recording the cornfield 

the mountain and every flight
of stairs we devoured
on the way to each other

in the secrets of knees
these creaking and clicking
autobiographies

in which is written nothing
less than the history
of recorded time

we had together
a few decades under a tree
a child now swings from