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—

an aperture:

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.