He's the type of knot
that makes grown women throw out their shoes.

Terribly impatient but troubled with the tempt- the sort that makes a hand tremor, not with a snare's contempt, the kind of attempt that allows a person ever slightly inside-

a ride, he's suddenly unkempt as the tangle unwinds.

Like sun through mortar, the ephemeral through opaque,
A man made of mountains, a boy made of cake
who received much less love than his daily make,
exceeding the quota, then begging: Here. Take.

He's the type of knot
that fears being cut
that dreams to be free
but sleeps to keep shut.

I'm the type of knot
that causes grown men to reach for their scissors.

I'll wrap you up for always
with a little tendril that sings lullabies, brewing tea
and tucking you in.

A fine pair of shoes we make, my dear.
A glory that causes cobblers to weep
and lovers to win.