Dear Lady, your voice moves through me,
a wind through exoskeleton, finding
all my jagged crags, the crooked plates
an antenna twitching for your touch,
dear Lady, your fingerprints upon plated
me, a peruse of arched legs, dreaming of piano
played upon my feet — your finest Mozart.
Standing still, your meager voice: a storm.
His voice, a thunder, O Lady. Your
husband’s rasp ransacks the bedroom
like a tornado on blinding TV news.
And I watch TV often, leaning ball-eyes
into the darkness, Lady, below your couch.
Below you? Merely you, and merely me.
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