We met, strangers at a local gallery, 

      in front of immaculate skies, 

twenty pintos, manes flying

   second to last light flung from canvas.

That light, my cropped hair, your tight ass

      let lust splash us at the same time.

I’m not sure when you and I cast ourselves

   into a short film in soft focus. 

Quick tongues, skin on skin on clean sheets,

    then us asleep like two tabbies in a square of sunshine.  

Scene 2 – us in a car where we read poetry on CA37 

   before singing Gold Dust Woman with Stevie Nicks. 

How long did it take for syllables of silence 

   to settle into the front seat?

We kept waking up only to live the day

    trawling for infractions. Please 

pick up your shoes. Start the washing machine after

      I take my shower.

Near the end, our short story – told in post-it notes –

      read like plates smeared with leftovers.

Art forms absent, the slant of light changed.

  I didn’t curl toward your voice. For you, I

became a stray question. The discovery 

   of each other, animal in nature, 

turned into background noise without a purr.

      Our love fell into something 

like putting a cat in a bag – always an arm 

   left out twitching and at the end of it, claws.