Sirroco

You, me, this neon jewelry 

store sign, your lips tracing

my ancient shape,

cuff links, 

cocktail rings, 

pendant brooches

crying      ‘look at me,’

us, the rarest collectors 

item, on display,

you crane your finger

 to say,     ‘come closer,’ 

I swan my neck 

to say,    ‘with pleasure,’

I, suspended; You, a gust, 

swirling with the southbound 

dust,

serrated glitter,

not yet a tornado, 

dust, 

& glitter,  

which is dust,

and your teeth

on my tongue, dissolving, 

ambered 

by English breakfast 

and time 

and tobacco

and time 

doing the thing

time does