• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 12

Your Foot

Pardon me but your
Foot seems to be lodged
Heavy in my hip
Your cheek has been molded
Up against mine
Your name is a living
Portmanteau for me

Whatever will the neighbors
Think of our unintentional
Always coupling, our inseparable
Sweet round delightful faces
Our personal collision
Of our entire lives and bodies.