I trace your name in air. Your feet follow
my up-down circle rhythms, steps unsteady,
bearing you fruitlessly into the sky. Like settling,
I bring you back down to earth. You bury yourself
in the crease of my collarbone and neck, joyous
smile sidelong, caught and carved in bas-relief.
Like settling, I bring you back down to earth.
Let you go. I lift you again, and again, tired arms
straining higher, desperate to guard this sculpted ecstasy
from the blunted hammerstrikes of reality. You
ought to see by now that sculptors exist to create
the very moment they strive to preserve.
To shield you and history from what follows:
your feet crashing down, relief cracking to sorrow.