Today the body of poetry is a curving neck.
A line of light descending from the nape to the seventh vertebra,
where the shadow becomes a deep pocket and a promise.
A breath holds the world for a moment.
The skin, here, recalls silk in the rain,
that wet light which slips away without a sound.
A bared ear, a lobe that awaits
not a bite, but the warmth of a sigh
that traces its outline like a finger in the air.
This is the focal point: desire
is the geometry of an empty space,
the map of a place sight does not touch
but that instinct traverses in the dark.
Restrained movement is worth more than the completed gesture.
The art lies in leaving the door ajar,
showing the bronze doorknob warmed by the sun,
never the room.
