I come to that ruddy shoulder and find it’s too big
to even try to circle around. The way it pulses just a little
makes me think of my own blood in my veins

how it flows and kisses each muscle only
as long as I stay put on this earth. And maybe he’s right:
scribbling notes on lovers; shoulders, necks, throats—
is not the way. But I love the trying, not the mess, the rugs

and dust scattered. Only this sweet business of trying.