Glittering rhetoric that gets nothing done, ravishing images of love and desire clogging the brain so that the ladder sways dangerously and the paint can tumbles drenching the hydrangeas in ultra-white.
A storm is rolling in. Neighborhood dogs race for cover. Sky that was bitter indigo is now the frank black of boot polish or endless sleep. Or the silk stockings you’ve put on
to study yourself in the bedroom mirror turning this way and that, winking ever so slightly at the broadening expanse of your ass while a dove and I peer in the window. One of us ultra-white as the days
before color, one of us gray as the rains of this morning starting and stopping, starting and stopping like they can’t for the life of them decide what to do.
