She carries a manual everywhere she goes
You never know when you’ll meet a child with crayons.
Imbued with the intuition of mothers
She takes my hands between hers, between her.
Redwood bludgeoning from her many many sights
As each leaf of the wet manual turns, each becomes an arm of the clock
A clock of infinite arms,
The harmony of which is between her,
The source of which is an intact spine
An ox-bow lake at the small of her back
Sperm floating like whales,
The colorist seeks her outlines.
This act, lacking iambics
Is termed as a victory over youth.