Bed Is Rectangle

  Bed is rectangle
  until we make it three-dimensional,
  inclining our faces
  like diligent listeners
  or pale and puzzled madonnas.

  Our smiles are sleight of mouth:
  we are passengers
  on a dangerous angle of deck
  just about grasping
  a perfect imbalance.

  Geometry isn't innocent, consists
  of quizzical kisses,
  dark arcs of eye
  and the slow semaphore before
  our arms play at parallels,

  or we draw, fingers dipped
  in shimmering ink,
  the shapes of breastbone, curious curves.
  Hearts, irregular spheres.
  Each body's a new blueprint.

From the book Love Poems