colors set
like sun fall
against a snow painted
mt. hood and,
holding beautiful inside
my eyeballs,
horizon spelt shoulder blades
into hand palms
with arms beneath arms
curved along back,
your back.
and i remembered
romance,
was not some book i read,
after all.
-----
most days she's the tracks
my train travels down,
and most days
she's the white cloud,
the now invisible airplane
left behind,
that i tell my friends to look at
just beyond pointed finger,
as several streaks line sky
five-thirty evening
as we're playing tackle football
in the neighbors grass,
before mom calls for dinner,
God.
let me believe her face was fictional
because the words she spoke,
digital,
slow handed
into typewiter,
type-righter
inked into my wingspan
she had the lips to make me fly
and the silence to paralyze
my fingers
tip - tapping
windows overcasting,
shadows,
she first cast light into
because her love was bottomless,
and she said i could,
enter
but only with both feet,
and i'll never forget the sidewalk crack
i stepped over,
and the leaf that cracked
when i knew i did.
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