recollections of the first fall

recollections of the first fall

afternoons downtown
hiding from the world in some
tiny hole on the ninth floor. the sun
caresses our skin, i crawl
under you-blanket,
you open the
window.

half of you smokes a cigarette,
and the other half is mine.



the evening chaotic,
you say you worry that
i'm staying for too,
too long
and i say it's
just a monday like
every other monday and
if i leave you'll be

alone.



but the mornings at your place,
like your peach green tea, taking
samples of our breath and
saliva
crumbling on
your bed, you
and i and your son
and your sesame seed
crackers and my boy
and your ex
wife

and my tears, your chet baker.