blueprints.

in the dark,
the meshing of diagrams–
if i knew it would be night, 
if i knew that the rafters 
would cross above us,
that the window 
would silhouette you
in the palest orange,
can we call it an accident?

if we follow a set of guidelines
for this occasion–unrolled slowly,
rustling with disuse, dusty–if we
smooth the wrinkles with our fingers
and taste the ink of old dreams,

then i think it’s hardly  fair
to say we smell like new books.
the last thing i remember  is
the texture of your coat collar,
clutched roughly in my hand.