Lower blinds. Dim lights. Allow shadows
to crevice where they will: below window sills
heavy with vines wintering green
despite scarce provisions;
down oblivious spines of books
and the table's hard edge;
along thin steel hands
holding time inside the broken clock;
under oblong spheres of pickled eggs
in jars lining splintered shelves;
in your cheek's dull hollow
where soft tongue recedes
beneath palate and bone; and here,
in the culled space between my oily fingers
and your nipple, risen pink.