You sit next to me, dishabille, with
the curve swelling
Dressed in the patterns of Sunday paper
afternoons (airplanes crashing)
Looking at your hair
blown by wind over the pillow. Lipstick. Sun
comes through the ocean screen ‑ a wet calm
from juniper trees outside.
The cat plays in a blue light camisole
We threw off the bed. Tweesers
next to a hair. Rarebit in
the stewpot. Kinch. Rind.
I felt your own hot tears on the
back of my neck last night ‑
You didn’t even ask me what was wrong.
Beauty is Imperfection 