To hold you measured three ways is the sun’s
Love, the March wind’s excitement scooping your dress.
More, I must have you in my measuring arms
Proving the night’s one dream, the all-day guess.
How the air holds you with its floating ruler
Heel to dark head.
How finely your height is told by a deep mirror,
By moonlight and bed.
Along the core of your height what other dimensions
Vary, I know by heart;
Constructing, like an astronomer sorting heaven,
Of novae and old stars my governing chart.
Last of dimensions, the salty fourth
Meters love like a waterclock;
Corroding the doves and the pretty cliché, it leaves
The key (tough, rocky with rust) in the heart-shape lock.
Leave a Reply