Our bed engulfs you into itself
when you finally give way to sleep,
and since I wake before, I catch it
in the act. Nibbling at toes and elbows,
it likes the spine best, gnawing
there longest. If you feel it, you turn, back
cracking, but to get at your marrow,
my love, it slurps and swallows hair
into white folds, leaving bare shoulders
like cypress knees to breath
the air we’ve made for ourselves.

I am running late and have never
been good at ‘sorrys,’ so I pull
back tufted lips and blow goose
feathers that spit at me so I can taste
you, too.

Maybe later you’ll find it.
The place I kissed.