the morning light likes her
very much
and that dress likes her skin
just as much
as I like her eyes
which seem to like me
only this day.
she lays in flowers
and quotes Walt Whitman
so casually that it stings
my poetic soul like the prick
of a stupid needle.
she shortens her name
and so I do too
in this poem
and on the streets of Chicago
where weddings crash us
and we dance near tables
not using protection.
her Southern drawl
decides to let me in her mouth
and one thing I can say for sure
is I could not love her anymore
besides a river and a reach.