The familiarity of her greeting is haunting
in how new it is to my ears, and how well
it penetrates into my desires, and how much
I decry the want to just get lost in it. That
The look of her eyes is no more than choreography
a clean-shaven look of trust and want
a wanton dare to fuck on the kitchen table
carrying the mask of coquettish coyness
and I mean fuck
It's silly to think that all of these feelings
come from the moving of her lips, the plucking
of her vibrant vocal chords, and the natural
dilution of her eye colour. The Hart of my crane,
the heart towards which mine cranes.
I'd love to runaway with her mind, away from her
life to a restaurant where the menu
has her life a la carte for twenty-two hours
and a few shared smiles beneath starlit horizons
of solitude and togetherness.
She is a stranger to which I want to devote
the better part of my afternoons, and after whose
existence my ideas will be nothing more than strangers
on shelves, on pages, inside of the ink bearing
their meaning of strangeness.
A strangeness which I'd invite into my life
if only for the promise that it will revolt and re-
frame my mind for the crimes of impassioned
blindness, of convicting alienation and embrace.
a slight exchange with no more bearing than passing
in her life, a slight change with no less bearing than
consuming my mind - at least for the lonesome whiles
before I forget, before I am forgotten.