A cigarette
Flanked between your fingers,
You situate your hat
Just so
Move a perfect finger
Down the red of a fishnet leg
And
Fancy up a pitcher
With halves
Of bright summer orange
My mind moves
Under heaps
Of threadbare blankets
Unraveled by the stratum of years
And nameless victims
Loved,
Lost
To the ticks and tocks
Of
Hurried clocks
Never for an instant in sync
Or chimes tuned
To a pleasant ringing;
Now;
Sitting in my lover’s kitchen,
Powdered sugar
On the lips
Of mislaid love,
You spin
In and out
Of doorways
As I move
Across your lines
Dropping into arms;
And
Into bed-sheets
Where
I,
indubitably,
Belong