I knocked on the firstfloor window she
opened bathrobe said
not today.
I reached
through the gap and felt what I could feel; the fiveoclock air
had
gnawed away
sensation.
this white roseflesh is close
as can
be
to breathing you:
my hand on your lowest rib.
the blue morning
thrashed
against
my fingernails and against
your ferret-belly,
harried
with soft vulpine hunger.
you cough a foxtail
spume
into the fiveohthree air
like an early train:
a single engineer
spooning into the fire’s mouth,
gleaning
no satisfaction.
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