by John Graves Morris

Against, away, and up, seldom at rest,
unbuttoned, your button-down shirt as you walk
undulates and billows, aspiring to cover,
uncover again the blue night’s breast.

Discovered, uncaressed now, unhoused, you glow
and hum and glide, a tune alive,
a sentient moth acircle perfect light:
that lucent, musing, lambent, marmoreal O.

Aware of darkened flame, of stilled motion,
aspiring to less, silent, lit with a song,
I stare at more sublunary perfection:
the moonlight’s pale music on your bare skin.