I could bet all the money
in both my pockets,
I’d end up homeless loving you.
Not roofless. That’s just the obvious.
I mean completely ruthless
with my glances.
like God herself spun
two rocks at different stages
of their crystallization:
combining in you,
the brute force and blinding bedazzle
of the cosmos themselves.
Rough, sure. You never learned
the womanly grace or poise
To make your mother proud.
But this prowess, this power.
accidentally fall into your orbit,
struck and intoxicated,
oblivious to the healing you hide
in the tightly woven strands of your eyelashes
as they caress one another in contemplation.
These beams which collide upon our union,
do they grind knowingly to the beat of our
do they feel this friction too,
as we toss and turn in unison?
Do they lick their fingers after we’re done,
watching two skulls lay
cocooned in summer dusk,
brought together by the grace of numbers,
off odds which defy serendipity,
do they hide blushing cheeks against this sin?
What of this serenity then?
What of this perfection?