In dreams, your breasts are perfect and skin
thick fur against the cold of this distance.
What kind of fur? Prickly, matted, coarse, lux?
Jaguar black with hidden spots? I wait for you
to show yours. The tiger always attacks
from behind, so peasants in fields wear face
masks on the backs of their heads. Mine slips off
easy over chicken or the fine tilt
of your face. I invite attack. Blame me.
A snuck laugh about biceps or dreadlocks
is not an answer but a start. Someday
when I know you better, I will write you
a love poem, not this poem. Your big bold nose
will figure in, so too the vicious part
of your hair. Your eyes (with special notice
as to distance apart and radiance)
will have their place and the veined highway
of your forehead will predict the future.
In breasts, your dreams are perfect: the quick milk
of mother, lover, sister, nickname, love.
A foot on the floor at all times means trust.
Dogs sleep unknowing, but I know. You too.
Velcro, velvet, this tune goes to pulse points.
You said Basquiat paints planes, but in boxes:
freedom, power, movement, travel, soaring
stymied. You were right, but now you’re pilot.
There’s plenty of fuel and the ceiling’s lifted.