Between the fires,
we take to the quiet,
the solitary moments limnedwith sunlight and stillness.The soft summers,
wrists deep in silt,
upending the hot, cracked rocks studding the garden.
The long nights.
The porcelain of our joined hips,
the minutes after,
where your palm warms my abdomen,
before you thirst
for a glass of something
hard and cold,
before I turn away.
