Two trees undress their winter leaves, stripped tip to stem. We watch them from our window; you smoke. One withers, the other persists. It leaves rain spots on yellow leaves. You smoke out the window. Disinclined to shine, the moon needs a restless love bone, two flies to skim the surface of the river. Above, the moon hangs like a voodoo doll. Below that: a burden of fish, deposit of shoal, where the same fish one day will sprout legs and walk as man walks, unafraid. Numb-drunk on the madrigal, you smoke like a fish, puffing out your cheeks, puckering up for a kiss. Smuggling bones below the surface, the river needs its delta. Love needs nothing. We spoke about it last night as you smoked out the window our fingernails curved like two deltas written in lower-case Greek. You wore yellow, and I didn't notice you undress—you need to bone, love. Your fingernails dug two letters addressed to the moon into my skin. The moon, our god, never received them. He didn't respond. Either dead or disinclined to shine on all the silver-flecked fish in the sea.