Back Seat Event

I.

I want to kiss you, but
I open the car door, and it is raining.
I know the cloth seat will only keep our heat
for the amount of time it takes to unfold into the wet night
and you behind me.
Your lips are not warm and flushed on the back of my neck.
Your lips are not pressed to my open palms.
Your lips are not gently insistent,
nor are they stripped back. In open moan.

II.

On the morning road, the cello’s throat opens
into a blur of birds and fog. I know
there are too many birds to divine.
Deliberate deep draw of the bow
and a single crow is caught
backward in thick mist, bourbon slow.
Loosed mercy. My feathered hands
press denim, measure the heat
of my breath against cold glass.

III.

I dream of birds. I’m saying
I know steel, glass stand between me, mist,
and rain. I’m saying I know there are
too many birds to count.
Your lips are a low note drawn
slow across burnished cello hips,
fingers insistent on strings. The heat
of your moan stripped bare on the pane.
I trace it. I beg you.