I do not know where your hands rest
when you speak.

but your knees are rounded
smoothing river rock and once I stared
at them in a wine-hazed fire,
and I called them beautiful but you
seemed afraid so I stopped that.

you have a perfect nose.

I am skittish in your focus
   , rolled and shaken,
   hazy when you laugh and ask
   for more, I cannot be sure
   that you mean it.
where do your eyes sit when you
ask questions, where do your
ears go to answer?

we talked so long, I think.

you mad ,but you magic
there no lie in your fire
as much as I can, I do mean it.

even if we were only close once,
with that glass tree hidden on
bull street, (you sang into the bottles;
it sounded hopeless and I loved it)
                 even if we were only close when you
                 kicked the candles across the room
                 with all the glass clanging
                 with us laughing our all out, throat roaring
                 even if that was it,
                 I would wake up again on your couch
knowing how your face may look perfect in the
softer morning-haze, with your foot cooling from
the cover, I would drive home in the sun, barely
awake; I would do this all again.