Soren

I want to paint you with rainwater:
your window, smoke over slick avenues.
The first time I thought you beautiful,
your lashes blonde lamplight.
The velocity with which I fell for you
frightened me, which is why
this is a postcard, not a photograph
of an American ravine,
its loneliness in a rectangle so exact
even a shadow is pained
by turning away from the flash.