We are not as elegant as marble
But we are trying
Living our fantasies together
In public parks
The erection of wildflowers
Laps space between us
Orange flowers and cherry lip balm
She drinks whipped cream
Through a pink straw
I touch her affectionately in public
And it is dangerous
Men approach us frequently
Wanting something
We do not want to give
In place of affection she observes the sky
Where form ends and where it begins
Takes a photo of me
Applies a filter
Posts it
I duplicate, expand
She talks softly, like the hue of something
Gently becoming something else
I watch her and I am moved
By that of her which flashes before my engine
So it’s a dreary December, the sun a low ember
behind ashen snowfall, when you see him bicycle by.
You know this guy! His paintbrush, you’ve seen it fly
as watery blues and greys create a feisty pigeon
perched atop a tarnished angel’s head.