fermata
flashbulb,
oil for wings,
study your image
into possession.

grainyness to this exposure,
incandescent pallor over us,
silent grace of lice. our low-budget
motel-lit snapshot.
something developing
that shouldn't be there:

me
a pocketful of sunburn
your shadow shoved into a jar



We only had two gloves

and it was cold, like winter
always is, but we were never housecats
we wanted to run until we could fly
on the wing of that glove you dangle
to me for you have the other one
and this way our bald palms can hibernate
together and be warm like that tabby
who hasn't moved for days and we
can walk along the old parade route
for hours and not get frostbite
because we are two half-gloved
animals with domestic hearts,
yearning to love wildly.