The leaves will not end
their sideways (snow)fall. They cyclone
past the window slit. Past rib
(willless) under palm.
The sidewalk light
dazes our hands between calyx
& shadow. Can this be collateral—
(now and then lips
to hair, unbidden breath,
beckons.)
The mattress plushes beneath. The imprint our own to choose:
fold, indent, wind-
press purls. I do not dismantle but cave,
dissever, I re-
align and mold my shape to
find. Swell, subside, we’ll mold
our shape to find.