His breath: two small clouds
on the puddled sounds of day,
our spines pressed gently into
lock. The several million years
between our bodies bend and
creak over the bed. He’s spent
his life upon a chair. His fur is
strewn like crumb-trails through
the house, his breath is
two small clouds.
We walk and wonder if we would
still talk without a cord. We spill
our trust out of squat bland bowls.
We gather up the blankets of our
lungs, boil breakfast eggs, and
s
l
e
e
p
