let me not gush
on eyes
or hearts
but ponder
more forgotten parts
a pen is
poised
a form to fuss
it turns upon
trapezius
how fine the line
the medial cord
that holds his nerve
connects
my lord
now every membrane
every gland
and every synapse of his hand
appears
to form the perfect set
although he isn’t finished
yet
i cannot find him
in this cell
so tell me
where does my love dwell?