In rapture. In grout. In early morning shouts. In toilet seats
up. In dishes. Undone. In trash. In star. Stuck

to my forehead. Unicorn. You whispered. In calamine. In Tylenol
Flu. In Buffy. In Bergman. In recliner and couch.

In popcorn. In butter. In buttercream. In cupcake. Split
down the middle. The crumbs that bearded us both. In morning

breath and hard-ons. In the mood. Not. In the mood. In the long tongue
of Vermont road lit ruby. Burnt cinder and copper. Unbearable

beauty. Our silence. More bearable because shared. The B & B
and we the only guests. The ghosts we invented. A widow

in the white curtain. Sailor whose ship never left. The little girl
feeding her teddy tea. Our spectral sleep. Post-fuck sleep. Salt sleep.

Dawn silvering the sheets. Bright threads
beneath my skin. In stubborn. In flatulence. In fear. In fear.

In fear. And time. In oil change. In cinnamon cider. In porch. The gods
we found above us. In Pleiades. In Orion. In Midland Avenue.

Midnight walks. The black trees we named starfish. One drunk night.
The British pie shop at the end of the block. In curry chicken pie.

In mulberry maple muffin. In time. In coffee breath. Every morning.