I do love you with aphasia- to wit,
in brief collages that intervene and string
merry hands to gasped current acts of beat
grasped through a foamy mad bedspring
with a blanket spread for the hiding of the tests
that are ranged from the edge of a queue-stretch
to the census of mites on the fan above the head
who agree to shift their scales, but circumspect;
and in unforgotten deals made with the plate
with melting butterscotch shipping the remains of smell
of your shoulder where the friendly promise was made,
besides the impressions of wings of dazzled grace
under the shoes, while fingers remain calm.
To wit, I love you in the deepest pockets of arms.