I am not but dust  
Yet this I do know:
You are a brass bone
In the most ancient of gods
A fiery point of light in
This novel machine
Regurgitating bruise- colored
mandalas
& Novel universes
@ a whim

If life were true
I would build eleven marble cities
For you
And gilded spires
Twisting to
Knife the rose horizon
Would be my poetry unto you

With Grays and Blues
Awake before the grayscale
Is abolished by morning sun
Leaning naked in the doorway
Watching snow slip
In that silence before birdsong

walking crooked fenceline
The steam of horses
Nostrils flaring kiss her
As the dogs dance behind
snow still now on the hillside

She reads alone
Laughing spilled wine
words she drinks
Content to leave
The kitchen light on

curled again
Linen sheets and quilt
cool skin
She swims
In dreams
Of gray and blue

You are the forty 7 sided polygon that I do not presume to understand. You exist in dimensions above my own.
You exist on planes beneath.
I beg

Beg to be a fly
Just to crawl upon you

the Sistene chapel of you

To kiss my antenna
Against your skin
And test the scent  of your solitude

Strange
How the fates have spun
Eleven threads that did not cross
But once

Our fibers touched-
And I lowly spun


When once our threads did touch