We sink into the cantaloupe snow, mountains 

heavy on our bellies, our eyes ice-blind. This is love— 

This is how we coat our throats, become 

like mothers. The air is made of wool. We might be 

a shoebox diorama: two figures, pools of glue, 

country blues. We could have a home 

in muskmelon, man and wife. Stay, 

skin echoes. We’ve always been la vie en rose. 

When they clear the streets, I find myself 

sticky with sugar, plucking stray pulp 

from between my toes. I’m tired of missing you.