The warm vapor of saturated streets
rise and give chase
While she
(a fading glow of plastic cups
and shady basements)
whispers street names
and grins...breathes
“peddle faster”

Gliding on the thickening wisps
of crushed coffee beans and damp asphalt
We rush to fill this empty house
with the fumbled hush of
clothes and carpet,
Showering the floor in lightning strikes
Until we
(a searing flash of static burst
and fireworks.)
no longer whisper
Crying out through open windows
Our dictum of passions
which run thick through the cracks in the sidewalk
and fast through the arms of the trees
to stroke the highest of their leafy tips
and flee.

And in that careful, breathless morning
there is nothing but the moments before and after
to stand as proof
that the brush of ridges and valleys
on our finger tips
Are not the illusion of dream
but tangible, feathered things
Tracing the seams of those quiet places,
both unspoken and unseen.