(after D.A. Powell’s callas lover)

this is the mood I’ve had on REWIND all night:      she is light
splendid arrow, sweet plantained tongue, saccharine, even her hair a nest of coal

                if I were easy like her,
            but aren’t I easy like her
        running towards the splash of color and
     the whitewashed walls

signs on the tip of a word:           calling me, lush,
             into a bed of arms of fragile, afraid that every
    soft will break, my voice tinkering across her face – a stage
too slick, the echo flung too far for my – self, is a travesty

but emotion is, after all, an artfully conjured gesture
a dance behind the raised sheets
     of audience that is not audience
           but lovers too wet to hug
they stand facing each other, hands trembling at their sides

    perturbed butterflies, darting between petals and netting
once more, elongated stems of Veronica, 24-inches of evidenced love
      in the travelling to the destination: her touch my chest
                [back track]
       soundless soundless soundless