Your legs were too skinny for your shorts
The day you walked into the room, your cotton shirt
About to billow, as if it could, on the unseen zephyr of your shoulders:
No one saw the half-smile like a pale pink watermelon slice,
Wrapped in bounce-ready plastic and exhumed on a foam plate,
That played the piccolo about your twenty-four (now) aligned teeth.
There was sand in a glass box on the shelf
Between blue books and a candle holder—both carpeted in fabric.
I had thought that perhaps a pterodactyl had been born again,
Ready for man’s last supercilious vapid idyll,
Hair parted into the patterns of a folded handkerchief
And wings disguised as hesitant and tranquil wrists,
But only your Adam’s apple gave it away.
The skin about it was too much like terciopelo velvet,
Undiscovered by narrow faces and rivercopious eyebrows looking
To find fault with the tightest of stone walls.
Music there was none, lights there were all;
Intrigued by the night, you breathed on the blackened window
And crossed your ankles, ready for the great green vision
Of spectral lightning, while the rest of saw low-cut, paper star, creaseless, impertinent, perfect