Your coat is dusted
with magnets; aphrodisiacs
sewn into your hems.
I talk through the bars
of my gate, spikes
freshly sharpened, force
my eyes downward. Still,
the sound of your voice.
I know I hold the padlock
while your keys jingle,
eager. But these jagged
little leftovers, burrowed
somewhere between
pelvis & ventricle, memory
& dreaming, snag
and pull until I invite you in
again, set you a place,
turn down my sheets.
© BARB REYNOLDS