He dances a kind of genius
against white walls;
all prim and branched out
The fireplace, calm as the setting sun,
carries me
to
him
Fingers sweep each other
collecting dead skin and dialogue
We giggle like short-lived kids
playing with drugs
His smile vintage, lips, dry as cocoa mix
now moist as dew kissed grass
The table acquaints us
panties wilt to the obese rug
among spilled wine and cradled glass






