much like
a shooting star,
your flash too far
for me to
see,
scarcely notice you
from bare
land,
but can you
wave to
me?
rhyme
good vibes roll in
on high
tide,
watch as beach bathers
run inside,
to avoid crashing
moisture,
engulfed
by the waves
we’ll drown in
pleasure.
don’t call yourself
sunshine
in the middle of
the night–
even though
your smile
keeps our bedroom
plenty bright.
i hold your photograph
too far from
eyes
to make out our
expressions,
then paint on my own,
from a healthy
distance
to see us smile
again.
dragging fingers
over strings
hoping something
tickles
where i’m
numb,
while humming notes
all wrong
to hear new
compositions come.
this sorrow’s but
the feather
over my eyes
catching a
breeze–
the dust kicked up
by wind
gusts
causing cathartic
sneeze.
relief sheens in
the dew
of a rose
leaf,
unpicked and left
whole
to bask alone in
morning
glow.
working through
the hurting
while
questioning
what’s
just happened
to leave
us sweating
this long into
the night.
white as house held
in latex hands,
blue as the breath
spit from a
floor fan,
red as deep sky
as dead as these eyes..
black as ink
tainting green land.
inside
we writhe–
two sweaty
ropes
with needs
of their
own,
friction
burns
up and down
our fibers–
better than shiverin’
alone?
hands in the garden 
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