You could leave, but the snow is whiter than an eye behind the steeple
and cross in our keyhole view, and the clouds lace like fingers
over the moon. In the dark of the cool room, we are two

pairs of faded jeans, folded neatly on chairs, hands on knees.
Silence, and a made bed. A half-filled flask and three words—
but you only need two to find the door. Close your eyes: I’ll begin with covet.

Slip it in your drink, and rub its rose satin against your cheek.
Jasmine blooms at night where you’re going: muddled sugar and mint under bourbon,
and ice from the man behind the Formica desk. One floral spread

is much like another, but this one’s a verb—a wordless action—
the tongue satisfaction of sticky rice and raw fish. A lean against red
velvet ropes, a delta of hips, and nothing but toes on the rug.

The next word’s a breadcrumb the crows won’t eat: crystalline.
The prism of a thin-walled heart. A chambered hive of honey
and teeth. Brittle. And bright. Like the blanket of light on the mountains,

and the gleam of headlights and passing lives below. The muscles strain
in your naked back, framed by frost on the panes, the arms of pines.
You are the last word, beloved. Truth, and warm milk in a belly.

Bone-china fragility. And I am a table set for dining:
red wine, Chanel No. 5, a reverie of hands in the dark. Say Yes
to peach tea in blue teapots, Yes, red cherries, and gold. And we are a twist

of skin and sheets—there, and gone—neon; and a silk kimono.
We are the huff and shake of Tokyo: ceremony, and swords
cut through the body—the clap of hands—a bullet train being born.