Anton sitting in the doorway
The shade was a triangle on his face
when I stood before him in the doorway
close enough for him to touch
my ankle softly like a thrill of wind -

like a patch of earth at our feet,
the evening falling asleep long before
we will, and in the darkness when
the cold saunters before us

as jesters, capitulating mirth in the
marrow of his eyelashes, hands atop
bodies, and we don't speak, simply
gaze out at all that is ours.