The way the wool is bunched in darker folds

Of green against the lighter verdant wool

Enunciates his hiding bulge and scolds

The eye to stare enraptured at the full

Imperial swelling of the shoulder where

Secreted clavicle enjoins the arm

To show its subtle shape but hide the hair

Beneath it; there the pit and tufts are warm

With scholar’s almost lack of sweat.  The black

Contained there, hidden, is construed to be

The same strong fibrous stiffness as the track

Of clean-shaved whiskers—masculinity.

  The close-cropped bristles (everything about

….Him) hints, “I am a man.  No need to shout.”

His fingers play the keys the way his first

Piano teacher taught, erect and clear

Of any droopiness.  His eyes immersed

In codexes move back and forth in gear

With words he’s typing on the silver screen,

His elbows spread as if a maestro taught,

“Your Mac is sacred.  Keep those digits keen

As if you were Rachmaninoff.  They ought

To step as if on ivory chords.”  Those tips

Enact precision.  He records his quotes

With open mouth and glistening inner lips.

Here knowledge runs in duty like scored notes.

..Dark irises surround swift pupils there.

….Dark seriousness makes harmony with hair.

His hairdo is composed of black phrased flips

That could be waves and keels.  This mixture makes

Him seem both young and old in depths, new ships

On earth’s most ancient serpent fossilled lakes.

His forearms look displaced from linesmen on

The Dolphins’ team.  No lightsome learning here,

No weakling erudition, just the brawn

Of focused brain no laziness will smear.

Completely unsurprisingly his nose

Is straight, as if of bronze or marble, not

Too long, too short, too large, too small.  He blows

It, coughs, coughs, works despite the cold he’s caught.

..Instead of giving up he frowns, he smiles,

….He wrinkles brows, researching music styles.