Gestures

Unbuttoning a man’s shirt,

your hands grow girly, careful. A methodical –

metaphysical? – awe for what’s on the other side.

Your fingers unfurl the fabric, puppeteer-like,

slow-dance with the last button. Dinner was fine,

you got straight A’s in beef, and now it’s time

for delicious blue air that flakes, filters in

to greet the tough panorama of someone’s chest.

  

Buttoning a one-year-old’s shirt for the night,

you know there’s no time, none left in the world.

So it must be a cowboy shirt. Tuck it in-

to small jeans. There’s a man: watch him grin;

were you grinning yourself? With such panic you love

whatever temporal overlap you two will have.

What grins may come…

How do gestures birth men? And such solid ones,

golden-hued, singing softly in the crib.

No time, risking with every split

decision to not get it right.

You stumble into the bedroom, to the only person awake

at this hour, kiss him with an open mouth, into an open time.

Outside, every phantom of a wobbling night

is blue, every bit of it dyed.