I’m all odds, no ends, 

approaching the stone 

of your front steps, 


June leaves at rest, 

some far-off 

carburetor sputtering. 


Malbec, silk dress, 


shoulders; the measured, 


the throttled 

thrill of sleeping little. 

No nightmares, 


no dreams, I’ve spent 

so much time 

being careful, but 


daylight’s tiptoeing 

through your kitchen 

now, this faintest 


trace of morning 

we could tear in two 

or turn our eyes 


away from 

for half a second 

and wrest the light 


out of the room, these 

few familiar streets

we don’t dare leave.