I’ve seen my own portrait

in filthy dollar store windows

and in the confusingly cumbersome/graceful

mien of the manatee,

but I secretly long to stretch

along the columns to some great place

and fill in the spaces where people

pass by, expecting beautiful things,

things to make you think and feel excited,

instead of feeling like

an eternal disappointment

or worse, a bothersome smog.

a stamen on the moon

mushrooming trouble

hunched rock shoulder blades

(gods don’t shrug)

–

rifled shag carpet

pristine paisley cuffs

link ducks to civilization

ancient and majestic

–

only the cypress made an effort

and oh she bends and so can I

he fixes his collar with no argument

except echoes of magma and manatee

I’m staring at a postcard from Vienna.

It’s been so long since I’ve been anywhere.

I packaged some frantic kisses.

Should I send them?

I swam a little today, in my chair,

while I dreamed alternately

of my backyard and your lap.

You know, safe places.

Wish you were in front of me

so I could read your eyes

and taste your smile.

That’s all for now.

Yours, I am.

Each mention of the moon

makes my knees quake

and my eyes lose focus.

Ohhh yes, I let slip

under my breath…

please say it again.