You are the first line of this poem.
You are an opening gambit,
perplexity, a variable concept of relativity
space and time
in which this poem (you) exists.
This poem exists to be you. You, the woman I write for.
You're a man?
That's a wig? You are a man in a wig and, yes!
you are here! in this poem.
You are a conundrum and sparkling wine,
a Gewurztraminer or
cider with bubbles and no booze.
They say art enlightens.
Between you and me?
It might as well be a sleep mask.
Light rents space for its morning stretch.
This poem asked me to let out its seams.
You are the first and second lines of the final stanza and
you know why?
I'll always treasure our moments together.
Reader, if you were a seam, I'd take you out anywhere.