tenderly sometimes moist hollow of collarbone, call it covered in sage dusk or rusty drip faucet

gaze darkly glancing inside and outside, call it potato skin or thrift of main street lights

mystery of clean neat cuticles and knuckle creases, call it loose sailing spider thread or glance at the storm front

hair sheen taken in hand or ends flicked back, call it thudding of the earth or several short pencils

voice turns the corner and leans over your shoulder, call it mild surmise in error or shape rising like a wave

arcs of shoulder profile and light on cheekbone, call it scattering of tern cries or lick on a postage stamp

curl or fold at the top of the ear seen and noted, call it unknown automobile that once passed or windblown letters

and the palm (held up) that looks so human like all of history, call it palm held (up) in mid-air or bleeding across an edge

and the bones of the face and the skull strong as an idea, call it afternoon’s dryers open warm or edge of moss

and tendon in the neck and a vein in the neck, call it summer’s past dust of trails or city of every freeway

and reflection of it and remembering it, re-imagined it (as nothing), call that pity’s sweat or bits of bread rolled into balls with fingertips