I, the more ugly, brought you up from the ugly
into my beautiful eyes—
which saw you for what you were.
Over a period of eleven days
we forgot your ugly disguise.
A hideous mouth became kissable—
teeth knew to wait behind tongue and lip,
breasts, by no means perfect, perfected
by a symbolism I maintained,
in the moonlight, when it rained,
grew by my staring and tasting,
and all our anxiety waited on a well-timed quip;
wit had a part in lambasting.
We laughed, and knew,
you and I could be planned,
if I succumbed to you,
with you succumbing, a little more, to me,
as portrayed in old, stiff, books
which lied about sex and history.
We were unique. This wasn’t going to happen again.
We wanted to love for eleven days.
And it was ten.