The tilt of planets, the tilt of her bare shoulder

The tilt of planets, the tilt of her bare shoulder
under her clothes, the tilting motion of dancing
stars in the heavens. Listening to the tones
of birds, the colors of clouds and the devices

of nameless poets. Wandering fantastic mysteries
in epicycles, retrogrades and stressed aspects
between the synods. I have seen her out dancing
in the pasture, dancing in the wet brown paint

in obvious ornaments. She is like a script
that is written by a terrible god, a villanelle
of nonsense. I am beginning to apprehend

her awful secrecy, her dangerous geometries
and make calendars of her patterns. This love
I feel is a mad and delusional almanac.