on paper like a painter
with his brush. He crushed out
the lines till they were fine chestnut
powder that he sprinkled on me
like chocolate shavings on whipped cream.

He talked
on air like a dewdrop
on a blade of grass. It just rolled
off his lips in drips that pooled
in puddle on the floor. And he slipped
on it heading out the door.

He talked
over me like a breeze blowing
a **** on a weathervane. I swirled
in colored circles on the plane. And he
dipped like a chip in the salsa, as I floated
on it like a piece of balsa.

He talked
on and on like a recorder
as I flung like a fugitive over
the border to a quiet land to hear
the butterflies. And I skipped in fields
of dandelions.