When I looked at you in pale moonlight's depth,
your figure cut clear air as a sheathing knife,
inspired thoughts of a three-day stay in a
wordless motel room, sunlight's dawning cast
shadows in long tempo on the stony-smooth
patches of your skin.
In memory as highland mists, I painted you in
softest shades, knowing hard edges sought to make
a house of dollar store playing pieces, but I
remembered you beneath the parliament lights at Christmas,
making snow angels in blurry photos with the
flash held half off.
As I said, “put me in with the bomb throwers,
the women burning dynamite sticks as candles, kindling,
and the men who sprawl their hearts on pavement
for a mere chance to know their lipstick fragrance”,
and you, caught in the seasons of your day, just
chuckled in bound ecstasy.
When I looked at you in the dull wash of mid-April through
the ruddy dorm room curtains, limbs strewn about
the couch fabric's floral pattern, a brief sight
came of our hands in symmetrical grasp, lying
in prominence of together's sins and virtues, but
gone just as quickly.