the time she
slips away and i
am desperate
as a cod wiggles
in my hand

This is not it, but if
she were it she'd have
skin as smooth as a new dollar bill
lips painted like a street corner
and proper dark eyes like coffee
on a suburban living room
table

This is not it, but if
he were it he'd have
shoulders as broad as a Titanic
arms smoked like an oak
razed by wild fires to a fecund
ash that grips our waisted
tomorrow

life is Good
this is not it, but if
it were Deus, it'd live in the sky
above us in a squeaky clean bath
tub