You dance, yes you dance
with breath against
my neck
in front of hardback orange
and crimson fiction.
You pause to catch my
scent and start again.
You stroll, fingers wrapped
around my fingers. You walk
against the crossing signs
as if you were the moon and
it the shadow.
Oxford shoes looking up,
pointing the way down 6th Street.
Nestled against the wind
sweeping through mountains of
high-tech architectural design.
Glass and stone.
How many tattoos, you ask
would it take to cover the harm,
to cover the hurt you hide?
How many butterflies
would shuffle against my skin
like a parasol to shelter all
of the bad good-byes.
The wounds of persimmon.
The cuts of cattle skulls left on a
garden wall
of seedless grapes,
of morning glory.
How many?
One Lilliputian butterfly?
Or a swarm of dye around
my ankle bracelets.
Only one, kind sir
and even she would take away
with laughing wings
as she lilted to the air -
for she has put bad dreams to bed
without their supper
where they wake to find you
dancing down 6th Street.
You and your oxford shoes.