Since I’ve learned little by little
how these things go,
and know that a pond is stone’s

blue clarity
where it has understood the sky,
since maybe this explains my eyes

or how my body’s flute-long hollow
formed to your embouchure,
since all my arguments are full of holes,

it’s silly to scheme against my flaws
as if they were not mine,
as if they were more than one

window scissored open
in a snowflake, which a child’s
unfolding multiplies:

slips in my calculation,
knee suddenly air,
terrible weakness for the smell of your hair.