by kvennarad

There you are, holding the coffee mug
to your cheek like you’re banishing
a mild toothache, your is breath making
small mist touch the cool, morning pane.

“It’s the squalor that holds a city together,”
you say. “Clean away all that and make
each street clinical, and the shell will crack,
the flesh fall away, the whole body prostrate.”

There’s more:

you limn the view from the window, starting
with a flick of green at the rainwater goods,
I come to stand behind you, nuzzle your neck,
your fingernails play a pretty tattoo at the cill.


jupiter©Marie Marshall