The world, distant
in place. For a time, Miles
Davis, then hand holding.

The fitted measures
inside the hottest season.

Like a shifting beach,
we move. Of course,
it all started so long

ago that we cannot
remember. Later,
his drive back to another

city, with devoted questions
waiting up and different closets.

Long into the next
century, I want to love.

On nights he stays
over, he lies
undressed, the comforter
up to his chin.

Pressing into a pillow
mountain, he empties
the cradle of humanity,
he wishes were home.