She left marks in sand and snow.
The earth’s residue was her mattress.
She slept with seasons.
He baked in the summer
and marked his arms with fingertips.
White rubbed-trails went up his arms
like a radius-linked-humerus. She
confused his trail for her sheets. He
confused her for a snow angel.
Her hair was layered with each season:
her ends were split, crisp;
her strands were damp, dirt-patterned;
her crown was bright, burnt.
She approached his mattress
like a snow bank or patch of leaves.
She sprawled herself across his bed,
arched her back, arms and abdomen flexed.
She now was his bed sheet angel.