Her ass squishes,
just a little bit,
in concert

with the smoke
of the whole world
& she says she sees

my face
& my right hand
emerge from the darkness

every time.
The pottery is witness
as it always is

& I wonder about
a reality that forms
clay, only

to leave it there
where, surely,
when she leans back

with our full weight
we will crush
the piece,

we will scatter it
where before
we planted

& forgot about
a garden. Such
is our pleasure,

to show the roots
we are the only bloom
in this scene,

to wiggle more
than is expected
for each other.

Twice now, I’ve looked
at the air, estranged
as I am with the distance

between my nerve endings
& her folded forward half
of my whole reality. I see

green only in a way that
gives in. I see both reds
& I have a history.

I see that all fabric is victim
to gravity’s indelicate pull
& for one moment, I love

a theory proven true,
more than I love her angles
& then I see my seeing

as not enough, as never enough,
as an art without imagination.
She could be bending me.

By the time I realize
it’s the back of her neck
I covet most of all,

she’s already making
the noises of a forefinger
applied with knowing

& purpose. It’s a sin
to mangle beauty,
but I listen to her always,

even when she’s yelling
at me without words.
Language lacks a look,

but the sounds she makes
without syllables,
that is my marching song.