Looking at the black and white
Of the photograph
Where the lips widen, complicit,
The retinue of days,
Like page rustle,
Turns.
The eyes, still soporose,
On the morning’s brink,
Open a lane to the land of our sleep as
The hair repeats the paths of my fingers in it.
This little hotel room
In a stranger city,
Treasures the shining artifact
Of us,
As outside the casino
Empties,
Having risked.