The first time
you let me in
Your screen door dappled
the hall with curls
A burning musk
was asking for my shoes
Your windowsill seashells
had turned in their whispers
My lungs rippled, leaves
of paper by your thumb
The first time you let me in
and we stood there like the east
Still, without
an opposite horizon
© Brendan Bonsack
February 2015