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 …