He uncovers the mole behind her ear.
She loves the scary blue one on his inner thigh.
He mentions how her waist puckers
when she snaps shut her tightest jeans.
Her face darkens, green eyes stray.
Her small hand in his drops away.
She vanishes to blow-dry her hair.
She doesn’t charge her phone.

Does he dare to place a silver
spiral on her wrist? What if she
presents her back to him, straight
hair shining? He retreats to his
three-decker house, varnishes the stairs.

One gray morning she knocks,
her hair curly in a stream of cold
January rain. Her arms are full.
What if she offers balsam greens
in this first thaw of winter?