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.