Ports' Mouth.

It would be
us in the wren’s nest
creaking, shifting wood, letting out
plumes of smoke as our feet
press down the floor boards
and the fireplace, gasses on,
warming the balcony’s breath;
when even that is too cold
to press ourselves to, we’d have
the sudsy warmth of the
tub, perimeters of stone
splash darkness onto, for me
to down my skin, inundate
myself with you;
rest below the bottled ships
with you in my arms
and paint on our tv.