i like it
that you can see me
the way I am;
diaphanous
and idled hands
fingers in wing
circle like red hawks
in threes
across my chest--
I'm not thinking -
just a flout
of crest, trailing
proud less down
and swerving up

malingering

in

between

where your head
should find some rest
in service
of
myself

and love

is-not-what-I-am-thinking-of...

and no, I smile,
not even lust...

just the breeze
and my goosebumps
in gentle protest
following
my nails

(they're buffed)
and gleaming in

the glimpse of sun
in set,

a still-shot camera

(six o'clock}
reaching through

my lids and dreams
those colors were
just born:

(as if)

my beckoning

created hues
just for you.

Yeah.

Just for you.