On Watching You Eat A Clementine

The way your mouth tends
the pith with such terrible patience
makes me want to give you
the valentine of my body scan,
a skiagraphy of bone and tendon.
I watch you peel it,
can't help but think the rind
a signature of loss, your coffee
spoon's bravura, the aver
of morning so still it writes
itself, like the typewriter bird
whose three outside becomes
a conference of birds, the clearing
welter of your throat, organs
on paper, my illium
unfolding beneath your hands.