By Maggie Gorman
Emerald gems spread like pollen across
mahogany tiles. Two golden lines,
growing as the sun had not yet risen
above the horizon. Helium, hydrogen
atoms pollinating the atmosphere.
Through beige blinds—
one leather clog
sleeping with the cold
cobblestones. And inside
above his bed, white linen and
his warm torso reaching further as if
atoms had yet to discover shape like
blind rabbits bouncing toward a thin
white haze. I took a picture of you, then.
At the bottom of some cabinet
used birthday candles, gum wrappers, paper clips and
you. Covered in dust.