Glad You're Moving In

Perched on a stool,
as one be-speckled
gargoyle over Paris, my love.

As fine in a red shirt
as on a cold night
those two arms can sink
the ships of my heart
send up fireworks
to celebrate
the drowning of stars.

This part, my heart,
played by a ukulele orchestra
with toes, not fingers
on instruments crafted
by a master craftsman
and sold at auction.

I outbid, I did.

If afternoons
a lake stretched out
under the iron of July heat
then my heart
under the surface is
disturbing the fish.

Tell it plain -
you cannot go around
making a girl ineffectual like this,

cataloguing for a lover's almanac:
quantities of orange light
the subtle angle of collar bones,
all things whispered


Prediction:
another season
of missed appointments.

All this by way of saying
still crazy about you.
Still!