Jeans on the chair, phone unplugged,

my little house to keep.


Coming home from that place he likes,

he says, To the left a bit; leave your shirt on.

Through the window, the maple leaves

slick and oily. The streetlights

flicker on.  I watch him

raise the camera, adjust things.


Depth of field, rule of thirds: he sets me

in the lower corner.  Finds his leading line.


I will not be the kind who thinks in bed.

In the morning light enters — delicate thing —

to rest on his neck, that collarbone, or merely

pass through him …