Trying Not to Breathe

She said she was bells; she was bows tied
feverishly into plaited hair. She had eyes
like Nevada. And I had not enough hair
for ribbons.

I told her that there was nothing between New
York and Virginia, and she smiled,
with those limitless eyes draped so casually
between lash and lash trying not to finger
my small lawn of hair, uneven piedmont
of eyebrow. She said there would never be anything
but the small acorn of moon and the careful crimson
of sunset that knew. Not even me. Not even her.

Never take the small of a woman's hand
into your fingers, if she does not know
that you are real.