for a.b.


Vines—bare, clinging to sea blue walls,
spreading from corners in waves—
aren’t love, as love presents itself on paper, but rather how it
sleeps in a double bed on Tuesday, for who remembers
Tuesday unless it presents itself in dream and the dream
is really what we want when we experience tendrils
of surrender, eyes rolling under eyelids flickering,
hands reaching for another’s thighs,
hitting warm pockets of blanket before resting on the crest of hip.
How the dreamers might fall into place if both can sprout
through dream, through stillness, parting branches,
receiving branches in the most unexpected places.
How one opens while the other thrusts into the air
until they reverse current, and the walls grow thick with leaves.