Your sharp little pencil,
its fine lines slice
deftly through the dishes,
the prepared meals, the niceties.
Where the fleshy heart of intellect
pulses on the undefined
frontline of desire.
You are a new Sun on an unexpected morning.
Not reading French, I read you in French
and grapple the ghost of your clever hands,
prod recesses which surface with re-viewing
and trust to Faith the translation which haunts the shadows of me.