When you are not here.

You should be with us,
feeling like we do.
-perry farrell

We sleep in desperate position,
junkies for cool breezes.

The cats will not come in after dark,
for, presumably, they have found dim recesses,
corners perfect for hiding from day.

Nooks, I imagine, accessible to,
apparently, nocturnal birds,
cicadas, things caught easily,
and three, four times a night;
things to brag about,
in insistent howl,
waking me in practiced transition,
from panic to praise.

I paint, talk to the radio,
cats.

Feathers, from predawn kill,
litter my hair,
the hallway.

We loll, naked, in your absence,
as we do,
when you are here,
only now, in silence,
save for panting,
and, unaudienced sigh.

We strongarm melting hours,
taking slow advantage,
to light wood with color;
that we can hold high,
heads,
when you come home.