Perhaps this longing, like the nude spring wind slipping through the window screen, shifting the redwood boughs to allow three stars their intermittent due, belongs to me, the maker, and the one I love, perfect in deformity of distraction and infinite reach. Stay, stars, in direct line of view. Stay, body, bridged in this remembrance, this forgetting.
Maybe, when peering into the depths of my own shadow, every beginning and ending disappears in the heavy silk tapestry of dream, where all overlapping is seen in an instant, like watching a circle close. Tonight as I rest in the geometric curve of perfumed air crowning the starlight above my head, I hear your voice removing darkness like food for the birds – stitching a golden thread of flowering plum along an unfurling road.