warmth 
like a dipped oak 
an aegis of honey-words 
folded in layers 
carefully made gifts
(tho hastily wrapped)
best taken while still soft
still hot
like candied ginger pressed
 between lips parted in awe
in rapture 

the steam of kitchens and
the drawing of breath
tumbling bedshapes 
unmistakable 
and knowable 

warmth
like a waxen wood countertop 
dangling incandescence
in bulbs and falling eyelids 
folding another poker hand
carried to the couch 
appraised in a tangle 
of fingertips
(ive never loved losing this much) 

i could drop into christmas
through yule and the past the fall of Rome 
first star to the right 
straight on til morning 
a regular of your windowsill
tonguing the glass
so that dawn could tell you I was there
 in the frost 
writ a promise 
that I might be back again tomorrow.

and tomorrow 
and forever.