My love, who rides the black flanks of the night
      on steel wings.
My love, whose sex is an inkwell, whose eyes are
      caged birds.
My love, who yawns above cities feathered with soot,
      and over jungles deadly as an arsenal.
My love, whose laugh is a peony walking a tightrope.
My love, who spins a radar net across the sky.
My love, whose hands are the fringed undulation of a
      hawk
      tilting calmly where only predators float.
My love, who sharpens the day on the carborundum
      of his fear,
My love, whose palms are roadmaps, whose lips are a
      dragonfly,
My love, who slays the wolves of inertia.
My love, who counts the loose sequins of city lights,
      and the spiralling galaxies high above, on the same
      abacus.