The intentions of this morning:
grey, and chill, and the promise of your heat
kept quiet under covers that smell like sex.
And I am too restless, too choked with what I leave unsaid
so I leave too, to the grey, still chill of morning concrete
where cigarette smoke twines up my body
lovingly, appreciative of all the places you have touched me.

What do we build? The blueprints are illegible, we spend
hours deciphering their greyed text. We spend hours
face to face reading, trying, editing, rereading, retrying.
I am a simple book. Keep me by your bedside;
I am content.

I am watching your hips sway, your hands expand,
the note of pleasure growing from your eyes to your smile.
I am rapt, wrapped in the glory of attention and attentiveness.
If this were my last dawn, if this lightning strike
was the end of my hurricane season—still I would take your hand,
pull you down the iron stairs, sink us deep
into the receiving earth, green for when the rains begin.
Your fingerprints remain visible, of all
the tired patterns of my skin.