she plots movement with the exactness of a fingertip

what i believe in the morning
and what i believed the night before
are two different things
she whispers
then drops the x-rays
in my lap

she is, what they call, an x-ray technician
her coat holds meaning and i love her for that

the pointer stick she grips
trails my twisting spine
she plots its movement
with the exactness of a fingertip

the nakedness of my back
slaps against the table
in slow motion
slow as the motion of a snail in love
coolness of formica
freezing into memory