An uncommon caricature of a sleeping man
Can I persuade the shadows to unshackle you with only the touch of my tongue on the cold air?

Hiking up velveteen declarations,
the slow swan song of your rem sleep.

The slow quickening of bones fluttering underneath skin,
the discarded clothing,
or stolen sheet;

the tepidly lackadaisical mosaic of a man and woman
crooning in caricature like left over footfalls,
impressions made on the street outside, quickly discarded
for aromatic arias, fingering those first cracks of sunlight
as they narrow downward like a fallen feather, discovered
from some other shadowy Elysium.

Is it strange that I like to sip on the sight of you?
Tentative, as though haste might scare me,
content with my corner of the rumpled bed.