I can’t remember anything except your
goose-bumped nakedness, my mouth
against your longing, and in the morning,
both of us lying there like a fresh coat of paint,
that, and the cat, pretending she wasn’t
interested, didn’t want to come into our bed,
her white and silver fur sharp in the sunlight.
You could make a case for the pure wildness of,
the pure blackness of your long hair spread
over blue sheets, as you could make a case for
my seed, forgive its murder,
since we were the procreation,
we were the morning of our morning,
for some moments, a little lead into gold.
You could make a case for perfection,
all the hammers turned hypothetical this Sunday,
this Sunday that ruins us,
and the cat, scratching her claws on the duvet,
and the smell of apricot jam simmering
two rooms away, the doors all open,
all the hurry blown out of the house,
all the thrashing long seeped into the earth,
all the love cries still high in the corners of the room.