this place knows my toes
but thinks them
smaller

the wind lingers here
sings inside my raincoat
and slips
like a kiss
into yesterday’s
wet fog
of
summers green near the flow of water
and strawberries picked
to happy the belly
stain lips sun-soft
and fingers with a smile
a squint
a wink
a blue dream of clouds
and swimming up from the bottom
to crest at the crest
and wave down with feet
at tattooed stones
in the clear

my bones know this place
but remember it
much bigger

enough.

the telephone rings
i choose not to answer

my window is large
the world passes
in fragments
for my contemplation

three small birds
sheltering from the winter storm
sleep under the seam of my awning
i close the window
and wake them.
now one of them watches me
while the other two sleep.

i daydream tranquility
while snowflakes fall
slow, white pennies
and jazz sings next to my soul

outside
children impress angels
in the snow

creased skin of his hands turns tan-dark to white
on a sudden line along the lengthy age of fingertips
the pear cups the palm
comes apart between thumb and straight-edge
moving together sharply

desert is the oldest skin
horizon-line cups sun-curve to grain
palm creases and fingerprints
age lengthily
shift granular with the sudden turn
of snowblind to night

see sandy yellow roundness
curved like her hip
into his palm
the pear feeds his age
gives water to the open skins of his life

but he shakes his head
green eyes burnt brown
whisper grainy as fruit flesh
disintegrating against the palette
a name on his lips
too dry to speak
the taste of love
too long left
in the open distance between

love.
this
lip-brush-touch-close-and-stay
stuff
trembles to still,
grows naked,
a gorgeous never
that falls
like language
away
until
all that remains
is a
thought
and the idea
of someone
to share it with