Proof

We laid there afterwards peddling our ironies. To open doors with lipstick on their brassy knobs. It's always when we're finished that I get that sense of having begun. The clothes we put back on transparencies. Stencils for ambush.

And so it goes without much frenzy. This old trampoline.

We should have something to say. A little more soil to fill this hole.

Turning over into each other. Small cogs in a smaller machine. Teeth meeting to turn the other. The crippled smile of bodies trying to mingle.

And there I am wide awake. Scouring the sheets for some evidence of the dream.