At night you exist as a wave
rocking me into submission:
every few seconds a single drop
of your cold sweat falls onto my skin
until I say stop: I need a moment
to put this in a frame.
I can feel it: imminent danger
of our molecules morphing
surging until we can only think
for each other. That’s when:
you take me to an art gallery
where all the paintings are red,
to a junkyard, to a restaurant
with mediocre reviews,
to all the places with parakeets.
I take the photographs.
Eventually you’ll notice them,
black and white, hanging
in my apartment. Please: don’t ask
why each one is of the ground.
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