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.