[poem, draft] perpetual study

This delicate sugar-spun skeleton-
leaf butterfly-wing trembling
delights and comforts and confuses,
all at once. (There is no hopelessness
in loving you. Precision, yes, and care,
finesse, but not -- never -- despair.)

Over and over, I find myself
gloriously stumbling, again afresh anew,
on ways to say:
I love you.

Fourteen jars of Apfelmuss.
Your public key. My breath
against your skin, or twisting
through my tongues. My words.
My whole. My Sinn.