Aug 7
The compass strokes formed by your legs, master arches mapping each and every gentle geometry. I swear to you that even the specks of pollen write to me— how much more, then, your dance, stilling the air in the room. I promise you that even the slowest summer breeze would whisper to me— how much more the smooth ballad you suggest, as your feet mark the hour, your face turned toward the moon. I declare that even the shadows of the stars speak my name, when the humility of the moon yields to that delicate lattice— how much more the ebb and flow of your arms, defying restless seas.
