But that's what it wasn't like
sometimes. A few times
bred something like piezoelectric,
the crystallized inside of quartz.
A watch. The way I looked at you.
And at times when the blue
light filters across the half drunk
glass, I can still see between us
The grey silk sheets again
between black and white
there is the predatory
the other afraid, wet.
A tremble under cobalt
neon the spread of violet skin
curved below me. And though
you made this fierce brush
stroke, a breaking open.
In a De Stijl shade of red
you walk down the street to me
I take your stride in stride
all banter, time and hinge.
Tonight the wine moves through me like a curse.
No flow. Only your eyes, not here-there at 2am.
It makes me feel like defining wicked.
What it means when the red is soaked all day.