in the valley

On the roof with the laundry confused again. We are the short way down. We are the edge. Down in the alley a dog wanders, wandering. Rust for the rooftops and cold water for the sky. The way people who stay and wait see this in contrast. Clouds pass in a trance. There are seven different types of consuming. Down by the dock, a boy touches the railroad tracks and wonders how one thing leads to another. You'll want to stand closer if you want time to stop. Bend your neck. Expose the nape. I spent a year there once. A day. A moment. I made this all up. All but the part about the dog. The confused laundry. Did I mention your mouth? The moment of a kiss caught in relief. What's the good in something that can't happen again?

The Crows

The Pompeii flashes still. Your mouth. Walking back to the bed. Your hands like desperate. Paws of kisses. This is the open ice. The blankets neglected. Clothes flung shrapnel. We will be done soon. It’s written all over your long back. A pale line of blue beneath your skin just here. You are porcelain. You are glass. What the crows know about longing. The morning after. Open windows. The raw light.