& lens

Your coming here, pure accident. Dodging. The barometer was wrong; it promised grey and wet. Heavy skies. Instead, it is black and on me. Some sun in my ear. I feel it in the back of my eyes: the confusion to focus. How close? How much to get closer? How many slowly rolled before you said “Come here. You’re getting too wet.”

Maybe you’ll always see a window. I can't stop myself from looking, and looking again. And maybe again.

& fingers

There’s something about the lacing. Touch and twine. The mixture of slice and rub. Muddled spark, all downhill. As if we are rolling, we follow the lines. Closeness, more of a blur than miles away. He is here, in this moment, overlapping each segment of digression. How many do you have? How many more can you touch me with? Hundreds? Thousands? Snakes in the rocks? Your thumbs again, holding every thing in place.

& subtle

Split me into three. Braid. You’ve wound me too hard. Up the hill, the sidewalk crumbles. I can’t follow you there. Collapse. Like a glaring light on my cornea. My always-red eyes look for you. It’s time to shred this colorful blossom. You say, “We must use our thumbs.” The veins in your hands that only I want. I will take this and go. A trail of scalp & petals. Snow in Spring. You have already gone, speed and sweat, up the hill behind me.