that first morning your blinds were making
a hymn on the floor out of the sun.

pull a thread of baldur's hair and
it coils out to an endless etymology
of you. bashful eyes, funny lined teeth
with a quill tucked behind,
censoring in fir green. it seems
asleep as you grow quiet
and by some humming band of unknown
particles in your magnetic field a
full creature just walks on out,
tail and all, weird and pretty as hell.

that first month the sun and i were both
shivering expectantly in a doorway.
how could i have known what it meant
when the proverbial wasp landed on your shoulder?
maybe i did. pulling those memories from their jars
yields only honey and one dead bee.
now, i don't feel even a line differently
from how i did, about to take root
when i woke up to you. now is more
whiskey in the woods than pabst on the beach.