Beveled Edges

She had bed in her mind. With a whimper she undressed. To little applause. To a poor analogy she hummed. Her future in her backpack. Her past in the sway of her hips. Scanning the topography of her suitors for peaks and dips. A liar. A woman. What's the difference? A friend. A poet. A virtue set to expire.

I put it under my nose and try to remember the smell of fresh skin. As unsteady legs learn the sway of sex's scaffold. Shakily clearing the fog from neglected windows. In the smallest of gestures. The perfect equations of the demon we call love. In x's. In n's. For us to determine the value of.

Spoiled moments. As soft as we were when the kiss first took effect and began to rise. And we were forced to punch it down. Wait.

For it to rise again.

The sanity of poets being measured in the braille of deaf metaphors.

If you can see. If you can hear this.

You're too close.