I would rather steer a song into flowers
than repeat what I saw: your breath pawing
and your lips fastened together, the incredible
beginning of the woman across you.
You flare up at the shoulders. You are a bulldog.
You are spoken for. You are inside the advent
and I am all but an adoption of a joke. I am a hoodie,
I am awake for dinner and possibly for the burnt fashion
of jealousy towing in, leaning towards the ends
of what is acceptable. It is a trap.