Hors D'œuvre

Placing your lips and shoulders on the carpet Post-December hors d'oeuvres in cold apartments Once we comb our feathers and cure your longing We sleep as winter pigeons on pavement falling Grinning in clothes and timbers as I departed Holding your hands and fingers as if applauding Hunting the moon; hung so low, we might have caught it Placing your lucky clovers on the carpet