Tonight the herringbone carpet spins
slowly, and I try to take stock –

whose heart is stuffed
in that green bottle, which tender

hands have I kissed in this bleeding light?
Reeling shadows dance wild

in cold spring air
and falling blossoms of fuchsia crabs

coat the walkways.  Lacy apple trees
white as breath along the bottomland.

Everywhere songs of mud and swirling
squalls belted from twisting clouds.

We have secrets now, and small
keys.  They jingle in pockets

as we pitch unquiet along
the shore, squinting across a shining

bay.  How much of your life have I consumed,
drunk on the wash of your lips and hair?