who knows you more but the fingers
that traverse the arch of your back
and trace the minute soldiers
on your weakening limbs?
they have been searching and discovering
all that is you for twenty four and a half
befores and afters
of this yellowing afternoon.
who understands more the secrets
beneath the lead cross-hatched on your chest
but the hand which draws
muscle patterns to cover that empty space?
My beautiful, they will come tomorrow
armed by the dawn, armed to claim you
to appropriate the color of your eyes
to smooth the lines on your forehead
but before so
I will have long named you.