Taking the Eros
out of it, I admire
your wool shirt, your wallet

which is worn and lithe.
Green like any tea life
likes to be. Black

with its color. Beneath
you, I think of afghans,
a winter of blankets: cold

compress that the
heat's left. This room
has cracked

around the windows, or through
the walls--
if there were ever.

Your hand is like
the craters of the earth.
I fall into it.