Another laidback evening here.
The wall opposite seems much the same
but, as always, who knows what might be
happening behind the bookshelves?
So many opinions crouching there,
slouching out from tattered covers
in attempts to infiltrate our days
with dusty smells of mould and must.
I judge them all by what they’re not:
the curve of collarbone below
the line of shadow moving between
tendons delineating a neck
craning to see, examine, find
how wings and limbs love evening light.