Music thickens into syrup.
Oranges burn in their oxblood bowls.
Everywhere sunlight pools
and green birds unhook brilliant
wings from the receding sky.
All the way home, whispers
drizzle and hands shake in the rain:
funnels and glass and ice.
Small holes swirl open, shimmer in air
and spiral shut like mechanical eyes.
Across the table we take
each other’s hands, we grip and smile.
We are dolls with hard faces.
We are wiry dogs. When shadows
stretch, we spill out into empty streets.