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, 

light-freckled

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.