Her body sprinkles adjectives behind
her as she walks. I sweep them into piles
and try to classify them. She just smiles
and tells me not to pay them any mind,
but that won’t work; I think we all agree.
I ought to write but don’t. The things I want
to say are not the things that words are used
for. I need feathers, petals, things infused
with scent and touch, I need a sensory font
to show her body crushing and suffusing me.
And all I have is adjectives. I paste
them in a scrapbook, cautious, dutiful,
and wonder at their feeble glow, the waste
of words and breath, and she so beautiful.