I could fill bouquets of bottles
with all the swagger and sentences
you’ve knocked out of me; I blush
like a duel.
I’m reinventing the baseball metaphor
for like so first base is sitting next to you,
second is holding your hand; I’m not ready
to imagine the broken glass smile
of a home run, though I want to.
If medical science would allow it,
I would let you wear my kneecaps