Those wide eyes like hooks
bit in my heart, and drew it out
in long strings, like angelhair
all tangled --
They were not black, after all
nor the tired brown of driedup blood
but wincing rosepink and violet.
Too soft, like pasta cooked too long
like jigsaw sunsets.
That snarled yarnball
that unshelled uncurled astonished snail
is too-pink and heavy, tender still
from your small-weak-inexorable pull--