Slick branches black, chronic
with lichen, stiff with old-winter
tenacity, but blurred, softened,
rumpled like silk sheets
the morning after, dimpled
with haphazard rain-fire.

We stand on the edge, stripped
of passion, drowning
in our own image, two world-weary
souls turned naked
to the cold sky.

I skip stones across our distorted
faces while you conjure
a laugh from some unknown place.
We close our eyes and clothe
each other in wild spring blossoms
and the sweet excess
of summer nights.