day 26

& there, just under the sweet
curve of your wrist, the fine embroidery
of your veins curves in a non-symmetrical
line. I want to pick it out with the point of 
my canine, millimeter by tender millimeter, 
and put you to rights.
I'd be so gentle I wouldn't take
one drop of your blood 
on my tongue, unless—maybe in restitching
the final capillary—you wondered,
as I do, how it would feel if that point
went in. blunter than a plain
needle, and unfamiliar—stinging
sweet, like the first lemonade 
of a humid summer. or maybe,
selfishly, I'm thinking of my own part—
I'm sorry. it's consuming, the thought
of tasting you. the soft blue thread, running
just to the right of your wrist bone.
on my tongue, you'd dissolve—
reform—so beautifully.