Poets never wrote of window of yellow air. Backs. Two backs. Not faces.
Wax of the candle flows without dilemma. Same nude wall. Screamless
We wonder how one abandoned room holds everything. Dreams slipping
through as silk. Breeze of departing fragrance of lillies. How it holds still
Backs of two lovers. Silent in sand
As one big yellow moon climbs over a window swallowing loss. Hidden.
Old phone rings. Carved mirror speaks.
My poetry rises in rags. His body trembles.