my god I want the box shape of your body on my floorboards
that spot where I expect a curve and none come
(there the surprise from too long at my own frame
and never expecting to seek one of your kind)
the square on your shoulders and the square on your sides
your hypotenuse lengths reach to me from the chair.
and why should you be asymptomatic
when I, mumbling and trembling and flat on my feet
and the air in my breath-short lungs too sweet,
can barely make my two lines meet
or intersect to keep you out.
but neither they nor I are cross’d, even should I try
that you keep to your own floor, my second
and never see me play-plotting points on your axes
a tiny map of swirls, of loops, of nods and shakes
this arc at the end of our story.