Her hair moved like a curtain. On her toes
she looked out of the window. I withdrew
my expectation of returned love―
the sphere whirled where I stood, another song
moved across my lips, danced in my ears.
Look at her curve about the room the way
a script makes peaks and valleys on a page.
The value of her lines―I read contrast
between her many chapters. It's as if
the narrative is vaguely labyrinthine,
the characters are hard to distinguish,
the definition isn't infinite.
Her body is disclosed by careful reading
of the leaves that make up her content.
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