I.

our toes sift the smoke-seared carpet,
together. i watch them, twenty
white mice, burrowing into
nonexistent holes.

your toes
are next to my toes.

i can't believe you're here.

II.

still, i keep you at my throat;
still, i know the press of your lips;
still, the scar on my hip
is a magnet for your palm.

only one season has passed.

did we expect our bodies
to turn traitor
so soon?

III.

under vellux and linen,
we leave pools of heat:

every cell a sin,

we, the king and queen
of fire.