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.