The connecting of lines

In the connecting of lines your shirt is half un-done

and I am across the room

at the kitchen counter,

two inches too low for vegetable chopping

and general stirring and the way you tried to press

yourself into me.

Pictures of outlines. Sometimes

there is just no stopping.

I have found you in the small bedroom

with a girl, legs barely long enough

to wrap around your rippled waist.

Her ripened cheeks turn

toward the twisting fan.

No template; no existing voice.

The smell of the fresh peach paint

only, and the sound of Canadian geese

end. front. middle.

Sounding to make sure

they are all there.