she reads me poems
on a blanket
in a park
in a town to which neither of us
belong

the sailboats in the distance
quiet the water
and i watch her mouth
a church of song

study it in the way
listeners do

her mouth becomes
a poem about love

the words in her mouth
take up space
and she does not think
to apologize for it

i study the lines of her neck
that move
when her mouth
moves

she lies on her back
with one arm behind her head
her grey sweater lifts to reveal
a bit of belly—
a moment in which i could stay.

i want to laugh out loud about this
reach over and rest my hand
anywhere
on her body
tell her how funny it is
that the poem has spread
from her mouth
to her waist

but i do not dare interrupt her
know that funny will become
another word between us
that i do not mean

i do not tell her
how i wonder if one day
we might become
a poem that two friends
hold breath and sigh over
on a blanket
in the sun

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