on desert island
face time

with
dear son,

i watch, floating
listless,

clouds drift by his
unruly crown
of angel
curls-

sun washed and matted
with little effort
but much
sweat,

clouds shift form as
run time’s
rivers

never to
still,

rolled out credits to a
sentimental
film

for only we’ve
the eyes-

soaking light from our
setting scene,

i smell eden’s breath
through a frozen screen,

in waves of full moon
worst tears
freed,

..in calls of my
daughter,

i hear the
sea.