The First Part I Saw of You

The First Part I Saw of You

The first part I saw of you was your dress
The long, flowing kind I don’t know the name of
It was running out in a twirl following the twirl
That you were doing on the dancefloor
And the fabric was brushing past the knees
Of the boys standing around you.
I knew I needed a line but I had no line
And instead made a beeline to you
And jumped myself into your twirl and that’s
Where I stayed until sweat ran down my
Temples and wetted their throbbing and
You smiled at me, a twirling smile that said
Yes, I’d like that.

And later on the walk home, it rained
Because that seemed like the appropriate
Thing to have happen and we were both
Wet and you pulled me to yourself and
Kissed the part of my lips that are off to
The side and curl up when I smile which
Is what I did as you did what you did and
When we got home to my apartment I lay you
Down on my bed to paint a silhouette of you
With the rain that that had soaked you and
As you lay back I pulled up, the first part
I’d seen of you to reveal the last new part
And under the coral lace that you had hidden
There I kissed you.

And afterwards, after many things, inside
Things and outside things, you rolled away
Across my bed and shrank from me a little.
Not, though, the shrink of regret, but the shrink
Of being done, and returning into yourself
From where you had risen and, though I asked
You for your named and the numbers that
Would lead me back again to you, you said
No and smiled again and said that it can’t rain
Every night and I understood. You kisses me then
And kisses again the doorknob as you left, trailing
Your long dress behind you.

Sometimes when it rains, I go to dance at the
Same dance floor where I saw you, and
I put a pen on the bottom of my shoes and do
The dance that I did with you and write my name
On the dancefloor floor
And hope one day
You’ll see it

More: Poetry

Image is “Le Jour ni l’Heure 0087” by Gerhard Richter

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