Noon glow pools
near your ear, runs
rivulets along the jawbone, drips
from shoulder to floor. Your toes press
shadow into twisted bedsheets, falling
into the chasm between us; I want

to kiss away the acrid
aftertaste of your early morning
smoke—hand-rolled, of course—
throw my best china at your feet
and let you scramble for the pieces.
My memory sees your face lit
by streetlight, a whispered legamre,
fog beneath your toes. I wonder

at how the clouds can touch you
whenever they want.