i love
the way that when you
push your heel into and against
the couch cusion the sound
that rises is like the pigeons
quietly content to be covered
by awnings of the brick mansions
we walk by, together, tethered
to each other and the sidewalk.
or, when you fold my shirt
(which now lives in your drawer)
arms in first, seams that hinge
like the brass of our doors;
and then in half like paper
along the middle, as though it
were me, that line on my stomach
where i, tipping over, bend.
push your heel into and against
the couch cusion the sound
that rises is like the pigeons
quietly content to be covered
by awnings of the brick mansions
we walk by, together, tethered
to each other and the sidewalk.
or, when you fold my shirt
(which now lives in your drawer)
arms in first, seams that hinge
like the brass of our doors;
and then in half like paper
along the middle, as though it
were me, that line on my stomach
where i, tipping over, bend.