At first,

     At first,
a hip sway
a bough bending in the wind
reiteration.

Fishmarket lovers wrapped
in classifieds

fingernail
collarbone
leg slide

naked, up
past our bedtimes.
Our laughter has sticky
fingers and a sudden
sunrise.

When I look at her I
feel like a man.
That old crutch called
objectify.

Still,
     when she talks I listen—
as if words mean
more when she
says them.