to think in metaphors...
the lines of his face, gilded by man-made fire
and the ceiling mottled with birthmarks of amber
are such testaments to those who watch unseen,
the sentries of erudition, gilt-spined and dog-eared—
he is a creature of the day by any definition,
quick in his motions and quick in his smiles,
with freckles strewn across a scholar’s face
and hair the hue of backlit dust motes.
(but to describe him in such cliches—
what a disservice!)
he is a glissando incarnate, a saxophone tune,
all syncopation and rhythm—a voice wailing
of love lost in the patois of smoke-wreathed rooms.
he is the name embossed on a favorite tome,
pages creased and torn and taped together again
his form framed by margin notes and underlined quotes.
(tap a tap tap)
measured cadence against his palms
—I feel it against my throat—
(a tap a tap a tap)
progressions made in silent movie mouths
and whispers spiraling upward
into dappled, vaulted ceilings—
(a tap tap a tap
a)
to still the dynamic is a coveted power;
would that I could still his hands in mine.
