affections

where the crown
of a turtledove moon
meets your sure
waterline eyes,
while I
get distracted
by fireworks
and harsh, overwhelming
gun powder noise,
when thought dissolves
upon that pure,
herringbone skull,
after we've evolved.

Let's face
that you can't make
sky-stretched shapes
of my muscle and sinew
with your fingers,
colours of destiny
are not bright
green, red or blue
but buried roots
all shooting
unobtainable hues,
and that perhaps,
between heady sound
we can admit,
I more than you,
that timing is
impenetrable,
and observing
is sometimes better
than becoming the scene