A musketball, a green dress

Here, I've found you

something foolishly secret.

The distance doesn't stop

my hands. I tiptoe over

cable to caress.

(That is to say, it's not

once escaped me you've

got something there to hide,

and I've got designs to

find it out).

 

I wish you to find me,

a musketball through

a time of rifled rounds.

I want you to come through

slower and hand made:

I think of your whispers and

fingers, I allow myself

a moment of impossibility.

 

I find you a green dress

in a funeral.