(for Raustin, and Spectacle Pond)
on that night of stars,
of sweetly sanguine air: you were slicing fruit
when the cold snapped its fingers
and bid us come inside.
I pressed a grape to my palate with my tongue
and murmured words which grew lush
at the hesitant nape of your neck.
but how long would you stay?
I stared at the eggshell ceiling
(at the table in the kitchen
in my house, the window cracked
a train moaning)
while you swelled at the altar of my hips
and confessed: every time I danced with another
you needed to take up smoking.
perhaps I did not know you
but perhaps we were to be lovers
so I beckoned with a lighter in a flat, open hand
and we bowed our heads to our unrest.
(as published in Rushlight, fall 2014)