Cowpoke

Like everyone else does,

you said, you go around bumping into people

until one of them sticks to you.

I’ve only been bumping into you, she said.

You were leaving the bathroom shirtless.

She was looking for a toothbrush.

Later that night

you made curled prints in the carpet.

A swath of the weave

washed in one direction then the other.

You dreamt of decay, small red worms

twisting on the carpet next to the bed.

You dreamt of manatees flensed,

nude and still moving,

cowboys hieing them through water.

When you woke to watch her chest rise and fall,

you thought of rising or falling as something else.

You remembered the taut skin over her ribs

and the smoke taste her mouth gave you.

Your shoulder thumped back

and darkened from the doorjamb

at the foot of the stairs as you noticed

yourself leaving.

The daphne had just blossomed

under the dogwood and the stars

and the shapes too big to be stars.

You had to unweave your way

loose from her rising chest.

even as the slow curls

of smoke and legs and arms

still stuck to yours.