white walls lit preparing the way for your home-
made love at twelve fifteen, your address
without twelve, add five and forty-three see

me looking at you and the perfect light angle
as you smear brown canyon over clean white nothing
as God did, and the screen of you in twenty years

washing your hands the same way but saying something
twenty years different, something inflated,
more meaning less, less of us, the cat gone

and everything with a hardness to it
like the canyon you paint over the white walls
in your new white home, the beginning

of us, the still soft shell that forms on skin,
tones shifting like canyon, grass cloth, and time,
though we may not discuss possibilities nor angles

nor the sum of your face, curls, or curls of smoke
lifting from lips paying service to some future