Watching Alex from the Third Floor on a Gray Day

Overcast days can be poisonous
Can be a sip from the wrong cup
Or a bite from an apple too red.
On those days, even the clouds ache.
The scarlet flush that lies have
Burnt into the flesh of your cheeks
Fans into flame when the wind blows cold
Bringing once more my maddening urge
(You, too, are a sip from the wrong cup.)
Overcast days can cloy with perfume.

I have watched in secret that black tangle of hair
You have tied carelessly with rawhide
Stir and wake in the jacaranda breeze
I have wished for your breath on my neck
And your lips at the back of my knees.
I have wished without once remembering
The treachery in your smile, the treason in your kiss.
Overcast days are a vine that constricts.


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