the snags
bleeding
through satin
patches
will never
elaborate upon
worthy request;
they will not
emerge
from jagged
cocoons
taking the form
of silk
scarves
she braids
through
her
hair.

Nor can the bouts
of such timid tempests
approach
the breeze
which silk
and honey
skin
begets-
all the while
delighting
further
in the continuity
of curving
femininity.

I am
wet with
glorious
residue:
emerald rain.

Neither the drops
which reflect
the Sun's
attempt
to brown the bottom
of my heel,
(nor the shine of
Achilles’ shield
amidst the deflect
of man's misfortune)
will distract you
from her sweat
resting in
the company
of love's stamp
below her
nectarined nose.

clovers tangled
in my strands
attempt to mask
the aroma of
desire
leaving my pores.

Surely not
for passing
eyes
to regard with
rudimentary winks,
but to feel
the weight
of asymmetry
inhaled
through your
windows;
to feel God
sigh
with relief
as you close your eyes.

She is grace unknown,
but I am
the
uneven,
unfinished,
irreversible
angle
of
Love.