I'm not as sold
on you
as I am
on your cousin
You have little
in the way
of her arabesque
angles
and know nothing
of the slow, melodious way
she takes umbrage,
packing up the long legs,
concert hall wings
crook neck
into an island
she heaves out
and then skyward
raising the calm
of her own private ocean
feet far behind
like a lover's old token
until dropping anchor,
en pointe and alone.
Lucky,
you don't seem to mind
the comparison,
too busy listening
to the indiscreet
secrets
of minnows
feet tucked in slime
eyes grim and primordial
on the shoal of a river
the blue guy
let slide.
