Poem - Cursory
The crease below the palm
is red from your wax sheet:
the shape of a dragon, turned
down to me—
you press the picture to a thin space
over my wrist veins, it sticks, reluctant,
the white back of it showing between
your knuckles and the small hairs.
This is the way of stains: slight erosion
of the topcoat then the opaque intent.
You use your palm’s hollow
In Colorado, Eli appointed to Senate seat
For new coach, a debut in front of the cameras, too