Words tumble to my page. The perfect line
your pencil draws, curve emphasizing lips.
This is the point of such relationships.
You make one sort of beauty, I make mine.

Whether your face or clothes or on the page
or in the workshop stitching, fixing heel
precise form follows function. I, though, steal
apparent calm from chaos, lust and rage

nailed down in pattern. I remember well
the slow calligraphy of perfect eyes.
Now all my art is finding the surprise
twist into couplet. It’s the mirrors tell

when we succeed in all our several arts
design the mask that will reveal our hearts.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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