The night of four seasons

March comes with the ghosts of winter
collapsing on my bed, orphaned and fragrant

as petals torn, rolled and crushed
with wet thumbs. To my washing machine, I feed

the bed sheet twice, the pillow covers thrice. And yet, a wetness
grows velvet on the back of my neck like the persisting

touch of the towel we drape across our backs
lying on the terrace. Beneath the moon being slowly

fashioned by the evening, naked. When you howl, it cracks
me up; I hurt my stomach cackling. The ground appears raised

like a coffin to receive the body of work
known as mutual pleasure. Stars gleaming

like newly minted coins nodding their shine
at the starkness of our wealth. The sandwiches go

soggy in the rain. Your lips part
the fog in the morning. Around us lie

leaves in the shape of a word our gummy
tongues are too astonished to spell.