I
A face print on a
pillow, still-warm sheets
the craft-of-us, it blossoms
in our every scampering
thought, we will pester the
day’s frame maker for more
pinches and squeals, yet
draw from depths a love
that ever comes, even
as we sleep.
II
a dimpled morning light crawls
up the arm of another day, advancing
like a rash, and the bathroom mirror
scans my face, while my mind’s eye
scans yours
forgiveness, like a parade with floats
sure, but the slope of this patch
will drain and pool somewhere
a tepid steep of contrition
that’s what it reminds me of
when we pretend to agree
I zip my face closed and cough up a
smile, perfected in its shambles
and relaxed, like a prickly thing
warding off the bothers
with preemptive skin
III
the thread of these laundered sheets
that can’t retain the lay of her land
I pull the lint filter from the dryer
and mount it, framed, to the wall
bedposts still lean to the slant of her
repose, window-light leering, wants
are cooing and teasing in the heat
of breathing, I awaken to the elbows
of memory and cool wet spots
the small talk of exquisite missteps
a specter haunting the big tent
with its randy elephants and clowns
