N21

I turn against my chair with blinded hand

in search of something lying on the desk

with which to sculpt your perfect image best.

But will it be enough? I understand

you in the living room: legs at fifteen

degrees. I write “abab”, in twos

to find your rhyming verse. I search for clues,

but I am not familiar with this scheme.

Perhaps a painting would be best? But I

have not been trained in art, and there’s no line

to replicate the curve of your arched spine,

nor function to depict your coiled thigh.

No cloudy day to represent your eyes,

Nor words with which to truly mark your mind.