We sink into the cantaloupe snow, mountains

heavy on our bellies, our eyes ice-blind. This is love—

This is how we coat our throats, become

like mothers. The air is made of wool. We might be

a shoebox diorama: two figures, pools of glue,

country blues. We could have a home

in muskmelon, man and wife. Stay,

skin echoes. We’ve always been la vie en rose.

When they clear the streets, I find myself

sticky with sugar, plucking stray pulp

from between my toes. I’m tired of missing you.