By Christine Degenaars

When we were sleeping, nearly sleeping
and I was on my side and you, with your right 
hand, claimed the slope of my thigh, 
valley of hip and bone, when we looked out 
the window at other windows, and when we closed 
our eyes, then opened again, to measure the faint 
ongoings and coming backs, the evening pace 
of peace, that silky wing, as we slipped to sleep, 
a light turned on, someone surfaced on the balcony, 
faced us, lit a cigarette and spit off the ribboned railing
that looked like the toothy black of piano keys,
and yes, I said, he sees us—his eyes on me, 
our resting form, he knows I’m watching still—still
we didn’t close the blinds, not you nor me, we let him
in, and something was lost, washed clean and
tossed to him from us, from me, and that night 
it was that faceless face I dreamed, and we, I 
dreamed, were tigers, we paced an empty cage.