Maybe today it's something with the stars,
tomorrow it's something with music. Calendars
of animals and girls, this obsession that
I have with light and dark. The way she read
the art I loved, I heard her talk about
a Caravaggio. Remembering
her in another set of letters in
a form—a week from now, another moon
or two finds me within her folding thighs
resolved underneath sheets. She is unveiled
by lamps and oils, luxuries of light
wax and wane on her nude body. Stars
lie still up there and see chaotic love
assail and overtake the sinful poet.
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