Shades drawn against the prying eyes of night birds,
we sit on the bed
and light our cigarettes.
Reflections of the red ash-ends stare at us
from the mirror
on your wall.
More dangerous, this smoking
in the dark.
Satellite embers
glow,
fade, and
die,
invisible as they fall
to the sheets.
I inhale,
making momentary orange light.
Tightly curled shadows beneath your navel
quiver.
I draw again,
and through the smoke,
blue-white visible even in darkness,
I watch your chest expand.
You inhale;
and in renewed orange light,
I see your eyes
intent
upon the sheets.
As one night bird
alerts others
with a cry in the dark,
we extinguish the eyes of our embers
in the glass tray
and slipping back beneath the blankets
we wait.