Wednesday, February 16, 2011

there is a softness in your handholds
a malleability like the
cresting and ebbing crescendos
of a six-syllable word

there is space for
improvisation in your body
of work a soft strange double you
unlike its harder counterpart

where woda turns to wodka
with a small addition
the harsh alchemy of language
molds us like

I mold your skin
with hot coals cooled
by a whooshing streetcar
like a young girl's sighs.