the day is folding on itself like the yolky moon spilled on my alley yesternight. Its orange fought the dark blue clouds, turning my pink hydrangeas yellow. In its spared intensity you peeled my layers of warmth. Standing nude by the window: unlady, unshaved, unkempt– in all my wild curls we stood bathing in the orange touch of morning. The sun shone celebratory for the night’s ecstasy. Had I not severed their arms reaching for my wrists in dream, had I not cut their calls, had I not dreamed for us would you still pucker like young birds to peck my lips, your curves fitting me tall? The day boils again to a yolky moon. Feast us both.