Imagine her legs in movement like a language
Of thighs that build a script, subjecting vowels
To this refraction or a rounded mouth,
Or if her gestures whirled into graphemes...
She is this light, an instrument of God
Producing and pronouncing sounds. I say
To her, with her, "Let's make love with nonsense
Because we're sacred and ridiculous!"
The line about her shoulder I had heard
In the ascending santoor melody,
And then the calves above a brown piano
Reverberated. I'm no self within
This endless, infinite, confusing music
That is her graceful, thoughtless utterance.
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