—into the 3rd second, the girl
holds on, determined not to meet his gaze—
she swerves her blue sleeve,
closes down the space,
while his eyes are intent, unwilling
to relent and
late into the 5th second they are still
fighting on, their feet sinking into
the slippery grass—
Approaching the 6th second
he can’t repeat the sweeping in
and each time he tries to clear
the way to her thorn-brown eyes by the gesture of a hand
it is easily blocked by the turn
of her cheek.
By the 8th second she is still repelling
every attempt, still deflecting (you can see
the speed, the skillful knee action)
his gaze. And she must know (she has to think
every second, there’s no letting up)
this is only
delay, but the delay
is what she has
before his expert touch
swings in, before
she loses her light, clean edges, before she
loses possession—
before they look at each other.