Breakfast

In the humid space of the dining room,
I can scarcely meet your eyes for fear
of trembling or worse, of betraying
a memory of what noises we channeled

last night, of how you shuddered in afterglow,
barely perceptible, spine-curling currents
rippling a wad of sheets, my fingers in yours,
your thighs on mine, the curtains drawn.

I drag a fork through eggs, shift in my seat,
blow on my coffee, so as not to remember
too fully what rapture we conjured,
how you gasped piano when I took you

too greedily into my mouth, how I groaned
against your arched, woolen instep,
no, these thoughts will not do, not now,
not when I sit next to someone creasing

open the New York Times while someone
else asks me if I saw Mars last night.
Why yes, I don’t say, I visited the red planet,
plus a few other galaxies besides.