the overly beautiful, like tchaikovsky humming,
are caught up in a stare they cannot break

(do not hold against the wind your age, for we
all are light, at times, and will be pushed away)

an angled warning look, the time it takes to brush
the hair aside, the nearby close of day.

prussian blue and open shirts hang empty,
Host, attentive through the window, likely

and wanting to be pretty like the distance,
never in the same way twice.

(to wait unready
is half so unforgivable as to be stayed)

open comes the door below
a move, a movement, steps

calloused, once-first hands shouting
raise high your roofbeams, carpenter, I'm home

singing, we are thankless croons, un-masted
and would shout anything to believe it.

the pumpkin spice small of her back
the gauging of the depth

an approach, an idle, a retreat
and the attack, delayed.

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