Women speak of concubines. Men warp the bedroom vines. The glass bees are shivers and the ceiling is a river. Hellos beget regretful goodbyes. We are unprepared motion; a bright mechanical triumph. This, a local infestation, where viruses become dark salts and spread veins on our foreheads. The subtle grain is ripe. Showers shed convalescent light and these white waters reflect centuries of distress. I pull glass stingers from the headboard while you rise like smoke from the bed. A morning bell sings rhapsody for dawn.