Yes, it was the ardor, yes,
it was the hair.  The word supine fell
across her chest.  The source
of the very quirky truths
and glimpses we breathe
slipped a pepper and a soft creamy
print into our mouths.
A man in the process of creating himself
is a man alone in a room with lipstick
or a girl gripping
the box that will later contain her
image.  Here, we become
pigmented, acquire color, tangent
the sensual.  You see how wrong you can be.