When I meet someone,
it always seems
that their eyes
run up
and down
the length of me,
taking
me
in.
Sometimes
it is just skim deep
and sometimes it feels as if
they are pulling me apart
inside their head.
I know what they want.
Some are looking hard to find
those places
where the words
make gentle curves
like swallows down along the tongue,
and the sounds of subtle rhymes
wrung like chimes or sung as songs
all leave their traces
in the hollows of the mind.
For others
it’s the imagery
that they desire:
those clever lies that tell the truth
and feed the fire of the heart
on borrowed blood.
I feel their hunter’s gaze:
a languid wolf
that hangs
above the throat
of every flaunted simile.
And some care only for my body
their breath comes quickened by my movement
and my shape
though maybe they’re more catholic in their tastes:
“Oh, I’m a metaphor man, myself.
But I do enjoy a nice piece of formatting.”
And always,
when they have read me
to the end
and watched the way I go
they turn the page
to do it all anew.
Perhaps they comment to a friend:
“Check out the rhythms on that one!”
before they’re done with me
and move along
to take in all ways
the younger words
come sauntering into view.
