Maybe it would be best to tell you now
that there are squalls in your eyes.

In the black of your pupil,
I found a clipping of her hair. It wasn't mine
to find; I left it there. Hurried   
to what I love most,
your herculean jaw.

I close my eyes to a burst of red,
and though it reminds me of your strength,
I see nothing but her jacket.

It was lying about in your sclera. Your lips, pressed
hard together, thin houdini lips,
an exclamation.

Your mouth parts, to breathe
and allow me passage into the wintry fjord,
nicotine yellow mountain tops.
There’s this wrinkle beneath your eye
from whiskey,  or from years of fearing your father.

I can see her, the hesitant smile,
slant of her eye, the pitch
of her hair.

The crow's foot was the full curve
of her breast. The apple chunk
lodged deep in your throat
was her pug nose,
a half-chewed ball of sweetmeats.

Two fingers, mine,
slide down your neck,
just beneath the jaw.

I feel the pulse of a man
who doesn't love me.