You’re preoccupied.
You came to see me.
I’m like an olive branch, your face.
Houses are lit in the sun.
The bridge is stuck together stone by stone
and the sky bites.
Hands claim me.
I hear the movement of soft tips.
I’m smoked.
I evaporate into you and savor
your fruit, pedestrian.
A sheep scratching itself against a rock,
the windows are rubbed in sleep.
I’m spilled by sweet training.
I’m twisting your bolts.
I’m seizing the black, silken
chamber of your warm breath,
the temporariness of your life.