Soon

It was four o'clock in February when
our t-shirts froze in the alley.
We'd talked into love before
like the rolled-up
newspaper we
tore to pieces on the bed
but never wore.
But we slept in it
that night, our hurried
latewinter bedroom.

The next day I ate
tacos and wrote: "In some ways
it was like sleeping with
a tiger cub. Or some long, white
algorithm, in my arms for all
the heat we made." Then the grass
convulsed.

And now I look at the spiders
on the window and wish I could
hear their slow, cruel songs because
I want them to take what we have,
turn it over in their hands
and breathe a name for it.