i.
The weather is passive-aggressive.
It leaves footnotes of each face
of smiling sun, darkened deterioriations
of moon — the aggression of its
weak might — elliptically revolving
around us.
ii.
I catch a leaf with my shoulder.
The wind tells me its woes
in shreds of breeze, chimed
with a reinforcing hearth
of some presence.
You take the leaf from my shoulder.
iii.
Each time we sit under the shine of light,
shadows smile alongside us; we are
parallel to its life because we are
its life.
iv.
Its winter lips breathe into us,
talk of the cold.
We walk among snowflakes crumbling
on our shoulders.
v.
There are five parts now
to the four of them –
these flights of light to dark,
shaded in rain at times,
leaving sunspots in grins
on your shoulders, towers
of shoulders.
vi.
Simplicity of this will make us
try to mend arguments
with our complications.
I touch you.
The unangered breeze falls
upon the touches of,
the nakeness of
shoulders paired by a kiss.
vii.
My friend tells me my age compliments my heart.
I am tapped on the shoulder by a light,
while death sets its shadow down
appropriately for us.
