He often thought of her as a Maserati,
not in how she looked, but in the way 
he'd look from her smile to her eyes.
 
I also considered the same, but only 
after her quiet telling, with her hair
loose and shadowcasting crow upon a snow
of linen yet to be sullied by warmth.
 
Maybe so, I said. I know your hands 
as doves of soap and stone; your thighs
as fields, that if followed, spring 
a bed of moss fed upon blood and bone.
  
Today, I say otherwise: mountain lakes,
her eyes; her smile, night in its kiss
of star. I am math. She is cold and far.