Gray day; snow with crows outside. With snogging
on the broken-down sofa. With whiskey
in bone-blue mugs and blue-bone smoke twisting
from the blunt between fingers. With curry
take-out. We let an amaranthine
mist fog the windows. We let the record
skip while we bucked. We let the sofa’s spine
whimper low. All semester we were bored
with our classes. All holiday the gale
blew. In one day we’ll be back to classes;
sleet-stained and cum-blind. I can hear the crows
cawing even as you gasp and exhale.
Let this day be this: nothing surpasses
simply kissing and grinding in our clothes.
