the best they’d ever seen

two forty-six a.m. moonlight:
an open window through which
blows a hoarse breeze
trying to talk to the walls,
wrinkled sheets
and a body angled for access–

dressed in secrecy and wearing
cologne discernible only at kissing distance
he stole into the room
into the bed,
into a life and
for three hours, or sixty seconds,
or seven days
he was an entire universe;

she was the earth,
he was a blue gardener and
together they created a sort of purplish bruise color
found only in autumn blooms
and the crumpled satin of sleepless eye sockets.

some time later she was a weight
on his shoulder,
and without meaning to
he stroked her red hair to dark scarlet
shimmering with milky white light,

having come in intending to take
and walk,
he remained,
became a giver,
and in the end she won the war.

he thought it was a fluke, privately
but that’s because when he approached the field
he didn’t see her shift her bayonet
behind her left shoulder.

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