Untitled, After Reginald Shephard

Petrarch likes my moves. He likes my use

of legs, desire of legs, smooth like moons

pinned to ceilings of little boys' rooms
(though the air wasn't on, the birds on

the wallpaper flitted about at around two

when he was awake and aware

of the viscosity of summer--how

it dove-tailed a bit then banked left

into a September known as birch tree,

ash and hush).

My bike's wheels rush like the music

of dolphins, clatter to the ground and wish

(I wish) to call out to my lost love (the

almandine shape of Spring--he is fifteen

and holds her hand as a tea bowl,

as a glass)(he is fifteen and begins to blow

his nose and think of marijuana). Petrarch

knows how to find my love, my hand.

He likes this,
this music where I give and give, then take a little back.

*note: the short, short lines should be indented all the way to the right most part of the stanzas...