What we do in the dark has no hands. No crossover effect, no good-bye kiss after the alarm. What we carry in, we carry out, end of story. This doesn’t even want to be love. Except in minutes when your face has the shape of my palm and I think lungful. Let want out with the cat. Returns and returns, something dutiful. Persistent. Hold your breath, let it build, let go. This is practice. I’m losing weight, a bad sign, I’m happy. Serious, you say. Contained, I think. The cat comes back with a dead bird to the doorstep, an offering. Bloodless this should be easy. A two-step to cowboys. You’re beautiful but that’s not the point.