Fascinated by shapes.  The shape her shoulder blades make against my lips.  The shapes of fast moving shadows and cold running paint.  Shapes that occur in nature and shapes that are pinched into existence by dirty fingertips under synthetic light.  

Sunlight making curves and moonlight bending straight lines into spirals.  The shape of the word night and the pupils when they dilate.  The process of chiseling a story into shape on a computer screen or a scrap of cardboard.  The shape of the lips when they make the first smile of the day.  Sculpted or traced.  Two dimensional or three. 

The cat makes a shape when he stretches.  The steam from a teapot gives shape with no edges.  Shapes of elation and contours that prefer the darklands.  The shape of a human brain in an MRI when they sneeze and fart at the same time.  A boot-print in the snow or the sand or the mud.  The eyelashes on a face-down snow angel.  

If I work the enter key

I can carve this sentence

into poetry.

If I neglect the space bar I can drool.viscous.puddles.of.nonsense.

Dreams make subconscious shapes in our heads.  The concussions of heartbeats ripples shapes through the blood.  The intangible shape of instinct, moving through the labyrinth of the intestines.  

Old tattoos rejected by wrinkled skin.  Fresh tattoos with slick lines and swollen edges.  The shape of a giggle into a pillow.  Once you start noticing shapes, you realize they never end.  They don’t need to.  All that comes are more questions.  

What shape is love when it vibrates unconditionally? What shape does a paper-airplane chose when it’s scribble with the color purple?