It’s everything
about his human make up,
but nothing of his mankind.
When we embrace
it’s not the structural difference
but the scent of a mid-summer day walk,
the kind with watching turtles swim in a mossy pond,
that I notice in his t-shirt;
the imprint of his strong yet delicate fingers
grasping for the ambiguity of posture
on my lower back;
the bass he deliberately adorns
onto the mezzo of his voice.
Why have I never wanted to write
obsessively about
the biology of a flower, like I do
on the physiology of man,
until now?
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