Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Amanda Was the First One to Notice

Amanda was the first one to notice
I had arranged my books by color.

She spotted the purple ones first.
She admired them, silently.

A plum-colored family stacked by size.
A happy accident, she thought.


Then her eyes moved downward,
gaining momentum the way her bare legs would

if she threw out her arms, and let gravity
haul her down a steep and grassy slope,

Just on the crest of tipping over
And tumbling down instead.

Her eyes found the white, the blue, the red
the yellow-into-brown. And she got it.

"Your books are arranged by color," she said,
kissing the last syllable with a smile.

I stepped into her gaze the way
a cliff diver steps up to the edge.

And the world outside our eyes grew louder
As though we had parked beneath a waterfall

And finally, with that look, we had
opened the door,

so that nothing stood between us
and all that gorgeous noise.

"You're beautiful," we said,
kissing the last syllable with a smile,

but never actually speaking a word.

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