My love
is rosewater
and butter mint, eyes
of a thief, not Japanese
fans, large
well-written
well-played hands.

His soul, heavy
upon me, my heart
struggling, expanding.  My love
holds it safely, rolls
and sways me, rubs
substance under my
aching ribs, he
twists the time, arms
thrice around me, my right
breast is perfect
now for sleeping – sleep
of bruised lips, we sleep
like stirring.

He paints my night
sky, and blazons our waking.