After the Exhibit


Driving over the soft hills toward home, the frigid air glass between us, you tried to explain
to me how it was for you last night, how you could perceive the small curves of my face only
because you know a decade of its silhouettes, how the impression of my warmth under your
palms, my hair swept against your chest, the taste of the thin skin at my wrist together make
a composition not configured in words, and then in words you said my work is coding feelings
into language anyone might understand but somehow distinct, descriptive and illusive, only I
heard your mouth shape allusive and elusive, and all along it’s been you: you, you are the poet
who wields lenses and frames, whose light comes in strands through windows and hours.