Soundtrack of a Chinese Restaurant

Here is the quixotic languor, slow
like honey, rolling like sauce from
your lip to your chin,

and my tongue mingling
with flesh amid the red lights.

Here is the silence of forks
plucking heavy cold porcelain,

voices break amid the steam
cat-calls, the shadows fly over
head, like jet planes,

roofs, shingled, and shackled. It's
my hand in yours afterward; its
love without a label on it.

It's Seattle without heat on it, so
cold in the summers that the fuzz
left over on our skin tangles together

like it was meant to be that way.

Like this precise moment
was incisive enough to speak
for itself:

(we're alone in a booth, hands
hovering overhead, worshipping
the mood-music, the bones of my feet
folded up with yours (because it
was meant to be that way), I don't
understand the cold language of Asia
but this

is simple
enough).