Klutz

First date
we take tea
at your place.
Chipped cups.
Krazy-glued saucers.
You tear a curtain down
to watch the snow
pattern evening a blank
in tangerine streetlight.
You play a Bartók dance
on violin, bow
the final note
and knock
the music stand over.
I send us to bed
without dinner or dessert.

Morning, you wipe
cold fog
from the pane,
sweeping off the sill
a wax stub of vanilla
we let burn all night.
A little dipper of moles
leaks down your shoulder,
and when you turn,
nose freckles
like spilled cinnamon
spread to the upper
reaches of your cheeks.
In you, already
my refuge, sweet,
my breakage.