Tan Pants

i’m in my tan pants. your face is by my arm

your perfectly knee is is stuttering in

is in your jeans here, and perfectly (under the coats

is against me, and understandably) our faces

are totally unobstructed by our tongues and i’m in my tan pants. your

arm is clutched by your hand and your hand

is figiting around your lips as

concealing smiles is an

arduous cover-up, an intense gesture. you walk to the phone

and i am in my tan pants, you are standing against the table lamp while

you are talking, nodding

in the space between your legs there is light