We sink into the cantaloupe snow, mountains
heavy on our bellies, our eyes ice-blind. This is love—
This is how we coat our throats, become
like mothers. The air is made of wool. We might be
a shoebox diorama: two figures, pools of glue,
country blues. We could have a home
in muskmelon, man and wife. Stay,
skin echoes. We’ve always been la vie en rose.
When they clear the streets, I find myself
sticky with sugar, plucking stray pulp
from between my toes. I’m tired of missing you.