The sunlight spills onto the streets of Washington DC

Where the kill economy is wheeling at 8 am; you are naked

On the bed and I’m drawing you with pencil on a pad above

23rd Street NW. You tell me an interstice is not a line, only

Two forms touching. Skin is a record of failure. Nearby,

Some protestors are shouting and singing beneath a red sky

Framing the edges of buildings with iridescence; they have pictures

On signs that show brokenness—like my little sketch—

Forms touching imperfectly like sky and space, restlessness &

Grief. Look at me she said. Look. I touch her shoulder, she says

My name, I crawl back into bed with her; that was enough.