Belt, Bra and Flower

The last three ingredients
bought - now, along with pants,
peeled back like the Tear Here
strip on Babybels, and wear-
ily scattered in the dark.

The white belt's ungainly arc,
the flower swallowed by the room,
the bra's swinging from the arm
like a brachiating spider
monkey - all unseen. I de-
tect instead their loss via
echolocation.

You fire
a breath, and you slump, not leap,
into the bed and mm and sleep.
It's hot. You're hot. And I'm hot.
I'm not awake, and now you're not.
I prop up your head with mine.
The window's open. The rain
can flick its fingers, and fleck
the upturned soupspoon of my back.