waves of water echoing

  cartoons onto the sky,

  and the clouds know i've tried to reach you,

  the stars have heard me shout your name,

  infinity has felt me turning time's pages,

  reading histories, writing the reasons why

  you fill me so full but have left me so

  endlessly empty, drawing these pretty pictures

  on the walls of twilight where every mark

  casts an echo into the past,

  like a love note rolled into a bottle,

  floating to a distant planet

  139

  the wind is cruel in winter, blowing its

  frigid breath over naked trees, but, in april,

  when the leaves are collected again, the

  wind whispers the secrets of our love,

  and the trees perform some elaborate fan

  dance to expose yesterday's skin where

  words were once so lush that kisses tripped

  from our sour, hopeful mouths,

  and our youthful eyes saw the world as

  some happenstance place, and the leaves

  laughed at our ecstasy, shaking with

  anticipation, humming some splendid

  song that i've since forgotten but can still

  hear when i sleep, when those spring night

  breezes breathe over the surface of all those

  delicate dancing words we so softly smeared

  on the forever skin of spring

  140

  she hides in the severe morning shadows,

  her shape—as tender as the night—softly

  glows in the shade, letting the better, warmer

  breezes of dawn place its fingers on my

  lips, wash my face with the keep-quiets

  and promises of her sunshiniest kisses,

  and when she emerges, like a bloom

  from a barely breathing bud of waiting,

  she'll peel open and taste my light, drink

  my air all day long and then hide again in

  the blue light of a hubris moon

  141

  as we tangle over a heartbreak that still

  breathes inside us and peer up at the

  same blue sky on long, warm days and

  reflect, i will paint memories on your wings

  with the colors of my kisses, i will string

  stanzas together from collections of your

  words, plant seeds from my long ago

  thoughts and wait for the flowers that

  remind me how your hands could draw

  a shape around the world that would feed

  me a thousand forevers, bathing in the light

  of your splendid smile, sunlight stretching

  around your kiss-stained skin

  142

  she hides in a sound my heart makes

  before sleep, a song spinning toward

  a dream, something falling, like love,

  or the ecstasy of rain as it tumbles in

  darkness toward endlessly imaginary

  waters,

  shimmering-shimmering,

  shim-shim-shimmering toward a guess

  of a shine—of somewhere a kiss waiting

  in the black softness of a sound i've hidden

  in her heart, her slippery sleep of a heart

  143

  your body is small and tight,

  wrapped in that little floral dress,

  and your skin is so young,

  your movements so soft with femininity

  that you walk with a dancer's grace,

  leaving an echo of pressed piano keys

  in the wake behind your tantalicious

  trail of curves,

  and when your weight falls

  against my weight,

  and i taste your mouth,

  feel your breath on my face,

  your song crescendos and crashes

  like a wonderful wave against my kiss,

  and i sink deep into your melody,

  follow its flow back to the source of love,

  where truth hides all meaning in our music,

  melts us over eternity water

  144

  you are the shimmer and the shine

  when i stare off into distant waters,

  your silhouette is the sky bending out

  over the horizon,

  you are the sound of a thousand whispers

  washing ashore, each telling me a different

  way to remember the light you've planted

  in me—the white glow of life that breathes

  even as the sun sets,

  and all that's left are the water's secrets,

  drawing poems in my ears the shape of

  your brilliant body, crashing and crawling

  over endlessly rolling waves

  145

  i've drawn the line from your neck to

  your shoulder countless times, trying

  to get the swoop just right, not settling

  for anything but the perfect bend—softly

  apparent—but it's impossible to get the

  shape just so,

  and if my pencil drops to your slender

  arm, tries to mimic the wispy shout of

  your marvelous wrist, then i am squarely

  aware of the ineptitude of art,

  and if i(and i will) attempt to etch your

  hip—oh, that glorious S from your stomach

  to your thigh—i'll retire my instrument or

  draw and erase, draw and erase for the rest

  of my days,

  but i'll still enjoy every wonderful second

  of it, pushing at the limits of man's work,

  marveling at your limitless loveliness

  146

  she's off somewhere slumming with

  nowhere's angels, planting kisses and

  clues in the conniving clouds, dancing

  above the rain, dropping pieces of

  poems to hide in the puddles,

  and when i look, peer into the drizzle

  of her disturbed water, i catch glimpses

  of her wings lightly treading over the

  surface of the sky, planting seeds

  from my heart into the stars for

  flowers to keep the angels busy

  when winter washes all the beauty

  from the heavens of our memory

  147

  a curtain of flowers

  lays over your legs,

  a whisper of petals

  that separates us,

  a veil of pastels

  pressing its soft,

  pretty fingers

  into my imagination,

  and a game of love-me-nots

  is massaged into my mind

  as your breath eases ever-nearer,

  and something new,

  a fluttering in the heart,

  grows within me

  and wants for your kiss,

  waits for your sweet, fragrant stems

  to wind elegantly around me,

  keeping me close for all the reasons

  the flowers need the rain

  148

  the music between us is moody

  and swells beneath our feet,

  spurs us forward with its silver

  singing,

  and a dance vibrates across the floor,

  you slowly smile,

  lift your skirt up to expose some thigh,

  and i float across the stirs of sound,

  wrap myself around you,

  matriculate with your melody,

  and let the desire sway us

  across this sea of song,

  memorizing the feel of your breasts

  rising and falling against my chest,

  feeling the tornado of your hips

 
splashing into me,

  swirling me deeper into your sinful soup,

  so tender and softly sweet

  149

  you pull and twist your flaxen wisps of hair

  like precious yellow petals from the center of

  your spotlight heart,

  and it makes the sun appear to shine from inside

  —not outside—the planet of light that breathes

  when you breathe

  and you breed bliss on days of overcast skies,

  bend night's stars into day and ply your skillful

  fingers in all the right places to send lights to my

  paper heart, planting fires and poems across my

  inky skin

  150

  the romance in a painting of her

  will remain vibrant and full of the

  flowers of our youth long after the

  dust settles on our lonely bones

  the stillness of a sculpture will hold

  the breath of our whispers, the prints

  of our frenzied fingers, after thousands

  of seasons have succumbed to sleep

  the petals of our poems will hold firm

  to love's last flower, try to wrap tight

  around the memory of your hair playing

  music on my heart, even after the seas

  have risen to wash away all the words

  151

  i've composed a thousand quiet letters,

  crawled over every word, held them all

  in my hands like beautiful worms,

  squirmingsquirming with the nervous

  energy of secrets trying to find their way

  home to you

  i've hurled countless wishes across the

  water like stones skipping across the oceans

  you've built in my heart, causing tsunamis

  of enormous wants to rise on the other side

  of the planet, waves written in your name,

  poems waiting for you in hesitation sand

  152

  she was enveloped by lace at her birth,

  grew skillfully into the silk of her skin

  as if she never met a growing pain,

  and she walks with the grace of water slowly

  rolling down the slightest, slipperiest slopes,

  and she smells like the sweetest flowers—

  not too overpowering, but subtle with tinges

  of never-enoughs

  and she carries sunshine in her mouth, warm

  and morning dampened, waiting to share her

  dewy lips with kisses so quiet that when they

  crack open, the only sound is gold and happiness,

  pure and brightly shining like the banging of

  buddha's bells

  153

  she wears her insecurities on her shoulders

  like little lace curtains of timidity across the

  nape of her neck, and her arms rest across

  her chest, shielding her light from infecting the

  world, afraid of what her shining might inflict,

  but when she crashes into kisses, when those

  arms open up and she lets the light out, the

  curtains are lifted—fall to the floor

  and she is a thousand summer memories pouring

  forth over these lips, reviving all those