there are these things like summertime
sadness and frosty windows,
moth wings and the cosmos
and goose flesh and miniature houses
with miniature chairs and

hourglasses and sun-soaked
sheets in the morning and your lips
against mine, hollow bones
and thin blue veins and the
delicacy of synapses and nerves,
reoccurring thoughts and images;
my intimacy with them is
alarmingly sensual;
like the honeysuckle curve
of a bare shoulder,

shadows of hands on walls
and the nectar of your kiss.
things that haunt me and
dance before me,
the epitome
of grace.