Where does such tenderness come from?
These aren’t the first curls
I’ve wound around my finger—
I’ve kissed lips darker than yours.
The sky is washed and dark
(Where does such tenderness come from?)
Other eyes have known
and shifted away from my eyes.
But I’ve never heard words like this
in the night
with my head on your chest, rest.
And what will I do with it? Young,
stranger, poet, wandering through town,
you and your eyelashes—longer than anyone’s.