The cat-eyed attendant at the circulation desk
looks up at me from A History of Lust.
I think about how I dreamed of sex last night
and how much I hated it.
We meet, usual place, books and papers
laid out loosely. Studying so close,
I hear you breathe, clean air whistling.
We pass the days mostly wordless.
The schools sandstone bell tower
is the color of your face in winter, the sky
blue as unoxygenated blood.
What would your frown feel like to touch?