man (living is less than fabric)
There's a thing called softness
and it lasts the rest of your life.
She has it – her radical lips spilling over
like pansies on ledges.
When she kisses, pale window panes
can't keep my heart still –
feeling all that is given one piece at a time.
I sew these pieces together, quilt them
in front of mirrors
(she's pansy kissing my buckets).
In front of mirrors to study the affect of her gifts
upon my face: expressions.
Her gifts, softer than air, and petals threaded together.
"Give. Give to me," I say, looking back.
And she's there, behind me, studying in-coming clouds –
curtains to lend privacy.
"Living is less than fabric," she says,
"a little more than ledges put together two by two."
Brushed, soft lips spilling over me.
Softness is the skill of making others feel all that comes and goes
piece by piece, all that weaves in and out of the eye.