07.12.01 |

She is like warm toast with melted butter
Real butter and crumbs in our bed.

We don’t let shoes touch our sheets
or empty our pockets there
(I have seen the contents of her coat pockets…
gum wrappers and “how did they get there?” bits of leaves.)
We don’t want street gravel
and leaf and wrapper.

Not there.
Not to mix with her stains of butter.

And me?
I am a recently warmed, day-old, sleep in,
missed-a-train had it been a workday, croissant.
Flaky skin, crunchy dry ends
Folds that reveal the soft and sweet,
The bright-spots of gold and unstirred yolk
the meat inside, uneaten cheese inside the mold
pieces of her in our bed
and me

crumbs of her, flakes of me
making nothing but dust
brushed to the floor
swept in a pile
dropped in a bin
holding out in a crack or a corner somewhere

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