From the tic-tac-toe of an undressed
window, morning’s a searchlight and
has it cornered. Her mirrored
wardrobe, my bed—some of our mess
mapped into the carpet, there’s nowhere left
it can hide. How many times did it
climb the Andes of our sheets, stop
and start all over us as we dreamed our fear
of heights? Or maybe deep breaths talked,
my sleeping embrace crossed you
off and its legs became another’s
fingers playing their way into sex.
The heart, my dead friend, also gets small
when crushed. Who knows how long
it never came out to scare us.