His Music

He is a place

Of marble and speed.

He writes me notes

That I hear.

His story is one of unearthing,

of a sun making casualties of snow.

Over the arc,

absolute shape –

my calves,

finish lines.

His novel.

You will find me alone

next month,

calling music my own.


Women’s illegal tender-

tenderness toward even the kudzu.

If he cancels the length and breadth

of my body tonight,

I will float above him like air from the fan.

Recreation fills me

with finger and tongue.

I am designed for it.