I hang my arm out the window for air.
Empty of paper I am a kettle of fresh steam.
The art of darkness is in my hand like a love switch, and so.
I will never choose shoes over sex.
Like my thumb over a pencil stub
a man pets my blank words, talks to my baby language.
Only three fingers are punctured, droplets in red, so.
Why disturb the night with our undressing?
Lost in a crush of bodies I sit next to this evening,
blow kisses to the purses piled inside a coat rack.
We are—here on a white March—only a bit more lively than
our addresses. Conversation is bourbon and lost keys.
Everyone finds a piece of themselves in bed each morning. Not one
to be alone I slept in the coat closet, counted the buttons
like daisy petals, over and over. He loves me.