The small of her jeans
Was something only he noticed
The pocket for a quarter
Or another small implement of love

Her name, typically American
Without irony
But it was the smell of laurel
That made her different
20 patch acid eyes
And the thick hair of genetic wonder

He composes a letter to her thumb
The digit that digs
In deep to his arm
and reminds him
Of what happens in cold weather

They are the weak vine
Hung together
in a cloister of time