His waltz-walk, just added to loveliness
in a southern township
made a balled hum like a grown elm
sprung from pillboxes or a revved engine –
the tip tapping, centerfold pouring tea
and fertilize the carnal burn.

I have an afterglow from watching him,
he treats it like a sunrise;
it splits to a peak, and dissolves untouched.

We think of such moments as a fever,
I hope he considers my smile a moon jewel
a valuable pepper of pearls
she wept and they fell from her head –
but not I, no, I know that girls do not cry.

And there will be a moment I know
he is walking to me, he will waltz with me.