You fork your way into night, pickled
envelope of humid air and streetlight blur–
the thought of them on your bent-low head
as, smoking, you turn dark again to dark.

When they call your name, you appear–
or maybe this is a dream you both shared
once–smoke and sulphur, the cloven needs
of a pair of bodies brush against each other.

You return to your warren, the hollow
where you keep your bed. In the waning 
of the dawn, the world resets itself anew 
again. You remember and forget their face.