I Can’t Show You to Anyone

Somewhere in the soft interstices of air
you wait, diffuse, like prayer, to infiltrate
awareness – demonstrate the metaphysics
at the heart of physics: mass, assess
and allocate my generously ample portion

of existence without which you know
I wouldn’t have a chance. You’re plain
as a banana peel – fancy as a satin
glittered pointy-toed stiletto shoe – and still
you won’t allow me to make love to you.

You hide like sin and virtue in voluminously
obfuscating clouds, schemes of blunt
obscurity: apparently you need the surety
of an invisibility: coasting, coaxing, stoking
and evoking, without ever boasting of your

fine control of every whiff and sniff and bit
of piffle that instructs my heart and mind.
You are the rarest find: you slip and flip
along the finest golden line – a sneaky
sort of fun. I can’t show you to anyone.

.