Troubled

by your beauty which travels separate, visits me
always at the wrong time, I think of your luck—
your looks are part of you, but
not enough. Just your hair
just your lips / enough
to crush you,
enough to open
my mouth and take you in it.
All of you, can’t you see, everything
why not? Between beheld and real.
How can I trust
what is not there to feel. Not an ounce of regret
in your smile that turns me
back, always back, almost over
to your side, didn’t your maker
dare smile too? If you protest
I’ll force you, before the mirror
how could you still refuse. I am so tired
of ordinary things, and you’re anything
but ordinary, bright and uncertain
as wildlife, needing to be named.
Call yourself different
every time. The same

maker you wait for is,
I’m afraid, the one who knows you well,
calls you to colors as a desert
lizard can be called to change, who made
people who are not beautiful
happier than you. Not property,
only art
is more judged, and you your own worst judge,
must always live inside it, seed to grass,
grass to hay, spinning

like an idea. And like the idea
of glamour, rising, ever
hot and indistinct, away from us.