For truly—each floozy curve
and slight fold
in her light,
mussed Monday
morning hair
and rumpled, white cotton shirt
might contain its own world—
forever
inaccessible to me, but
nonetheless
omnipresent;
barely
even conceivable, and yet—
gargantuan,
obvious,
positively elephantine.
And every one of those
secret lands,
a dim planet spinning
in a soundless vacuum—without exception
and with
no scientific explanation needed
in order for me
to believe—
each in such
definite, desperate
and paralyzing
need of her
everlasting
protection.
