Winter, 2010

We shed our clothes like swimmers,

dive into bed. You smear sunblock

over my prickly arms, as if I'll brown

like an obedient leaf. I dutifully dab

your dry forehead, tracing invisible

polygons of sweat. Your old Bermudas

crease and crumple, knees knocking

under fluorescent light. Popsicles bite

our paralysed tongues. Six months,

you hiss, finger-counting. I blanket you

like secret snow, melting heavily

into your warmest corners.