Contrary to struts,
when you entered printed
in hammock diamonds,
I only thought you a trifle cute.
If you gesture and are slang-wrought,
I can see your hairy shoulders
and that your fingers are like putty.
When you turn your head cool,
as if atop some smooth robot gyro,
I note your nose is cavernous and sailing,
swivels like the jib.
But my eyes clap, your lips rustle,
and all the dorky things are here,
and harmless,
and comforting.
You’re the kind of lover that leaves
peanut shells on the headboard.
I tell you so,
and you roll a die, flip a card,
and ham about me wildly.
