your cocky grin
its edges lit with kisses
and island rum cigars
toying with the cogs
of my machine
your curveball smile
I count to ten
and focus hard on anything
but you
concocting makeshift dreams
to pour you from my mind
extracting thoughts like mango pulp
to sieve and put away
eight nine
and there you are
my abacus
my slow counting beads
pressed between my hands
I stand on scaffolding
and paint the chapel ceilings red
with leitmotifs of you
your cocky grin
its edges lit with
island rum cigars
I count to ten.