My dreams are made of limestone: porous, reflective and lasting

centuries ago, the template for fine art 

was imprinted into marble 

like how my nails make soft indents in

your skin, artistry finds a place to settle -

to decompose into first principles,

into primary source material 

and by some god-given right,

your hands around my waist find their way

to genesis. 

in a dream I woke up 

on the grounds of a county fair 

popcorn glued to my cheek 

and I rode the Ferris wheel in a lonely seat made for two 

and I understood that we reiterate ourselves

over and over again until it reaches just the right person 

at the right time 

as the marble only gets smoother with wear. 

Even Cupid got pricked by his own arrow

licking cappuccino foam off my upper lip, 

I notice for the first time 

the shape of your mouth, 

the perfect cupids bow.

somewhere in between my 21st and 22nd rib is an arrow, 

lodged there by a tiny plump marksman 

but the copper taste in my mouth is so sweet 

I wash it down with steamed milk

I bite your upper lip 

and if this injury puts me on bedrest

I’m just fine with that -

tangled in bed I’ll give you a million kisses 

with my own bow 

hitting the mark over and over again.