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.