She touched me like I was her ivories,
but she played me clumsy like a bassoon.
She taught me how to swagger,
until I fell beneath her wooden shoes.

Most nights, she slept so sound,
a fisherman’s lure was the only breaking calm.
I adore the arch of her eyebrows;
Steep dim peaks rising above Chinese ink.
If she were made of watercolor,
I would bleed to be her page.

narrative poem written on 12-03-2009 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem


- Remove line breaks