I have not yet seen
your living room--and I
know it is dirty.
In my mind, you arch your back
into sunlight and dust motes.
Listening to you
explain imaginary
numbers like sweet, rich
gossip: write an equation
for my cells that call your name.
Your lower lip begs,
without pout, to be bitten.
I will grant its wish.
Quick: hand me a lamp.
I'll rub. Tonight I feel like
I could conjure you.
Your buckled elbows
relinquish your body to
gravity; you're pulled
into me, and I exhale--
at last, I am close enough.
