[In Bed, The Kiss, Toulouse-Lautrec]
Knowing the Cycle
Dust settles on my skin and is comfortable
finding me familiar.
So it is with the doubter whose pause
accommodates the silvered population
of seeking light that lights
only those whose staid
indecision allows time
for dusty outline.
A sculpted coating forms.
What if I shook
this silver shape, breathing
naked, hanging my arms, hair?
I would be certain then
as those trees that breathe
shattering their leafy domes of protection
Certain, too, that the wind would blow
that back again, culling sprouts
of green and my silver dome.
I don’t doubt this.