Tracing the perfect arc of your back
As you sit on the edge of the earth
Rolling cigarettes
I think of Indian ink and soft-tipped brush;
But I could never recreate you,
Ethereal being,
Almost aglow in the pale light of
Our private night.

As you return to lie, I curl around your
Flawless frame, like a cat, purring at soft strokes.
Here there is no time;
Darkness slips and morning melts to afternoon,
Yet limbs linger intertwined as
I dip into the blue, into you.
Up above, the all-day ceiling-stars
Realign along old routes, showering us in gold-dust.
Aglint, a whisper, a shine,
You are mine,
You are mine.