for Donald Grace
Underneath your skin, your heart
moves. Your chest
rises at its touch. A small bump
second. We watch for what appears
to be hours.
Our hands log the time: the soft
underneath your eyes. Our bodies
intersect like highways
with limitless access and perfect spans
We pay for this later. I pay
for breakfast. We
can’t stay long. We take off
to the museum
and watch the individual colors
as they surface
in the late works of Matisse.
They move the way
your heart moves, the way we breathe.
You draw your own
breath, then I draw mine. This is
truly great art.