And is this your heart arithmetic?
This is the way the wind measures the weather.
- Carl Sandburg, "How Much"
i
the bluest barest silk
traveling up your thigh is
a skim of mist over
an orchard in the unclasping
of the morning.
i may actually be in love
with your fabrics. you are
spread, unironed, untucked,
unfolded. you are a silk road,
originating somewhere
further east in the evening. i button you back up
slowly, like a jacket against the cold
of a doubt.
ii
freckles tossed
over your shoulder
like spilled salt, to avoid bad luck.
there is a cigarette.
i can feel the heat of it beside my ear,
like a whispered, sexy threat.
iii
love, i am closing my eyes
because i am painting. i am painting
your voice, your palette of voyelles.
it is not because you are ugly that i am closing my eyes;
it is because i am painting
the molotov of your hair, your flammables
that I am afraid I will not be able to rescue
when the house burns down.
i am painting the set traps
of your ankles. i daub my finger
in moonlight, and try to paint you into
something more than just a sum
of your parts -- you,
a beautiful engine.
