I wake to see a figure of dew on the ceiling.

And as the morning begins its slow burn I lie waiting for its
form to race into mist, but instead a first drop falls: a tiny
grape wrenched from the vine.

It lands on my lips and I taste your shoulder, another by my
nostrils and I smell your nape with its manual of incitements.
Another splashes my eyes and I see you, back home and in
bed: like here, it's early. There's dew on the ceiling, a thou-
sand future licks hover above you. And then the first quiv-
ering bead begins to release . . .