I know nothing about art.
But I know about you.
I know your skin, your hair, your lips.
"Darling," I said. "Would you like to go to the cinema?"
I know nothing about the cinema.
You hold my heart in your palm, expertly,
Ripped out of me, but still beating.
How do you do that?
The words freeze like icicles on the roof of my mouth.
My jaw cracks with the weight of truth.
I know nothing about anything anymore.
Your back curls into the sun, wolflike.
You ruffle your feathers, hawk.
And me, the delicate fawn. The glass lamb.
We're all still animals.
The last one:
I know nothing about you either.