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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 …

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