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It was as though, like your blue
dress, I was born far from home:
a place where no language
matched my country.
Forgetting both how to add
and subtract, and reaching
in to your eyes for something,
however tentative to gather kisses from.
There's something electric
in your hair. Something in the way
you keep analysing my face.
Eyes sculpting so many thoughts.
Strike of five, and I kneel.
I'm already sending trails
after you, trails of ones and zeros.
Begging you back to my side.
I had watched your car
leave the road, until it was
too hard to see. Then
you vanished and became the distance.
::Tetrahedron::
I always recognise you
when you wave,
even across a large room,
where, at spirited angles,
our glances cross,
and are done connecting
at the moment they are taken.
::Terra Cotta::
Grass was growing on the wall that year
and there was a patch of a red-ridged succulent,
announcing it's rocket of blossoms
that, every two years,
unfurl in the whispers of winter sun,
begging and licking the air
for the kiss of
the plant next door.
It's strange when I walk along
the ridge over the rocks
and there's no sign of you.
There, where you sat down,
and made forever a place
in the stone, perfectly
sculpted to you.
Our veteran faces making
walls to the north and
to the west.
Our shadows speaking
of us to early evening,
with all those parts of us
that said why not?
I know the world is beyond our
comprehension, a gaze I cannot steady
in groundless country,
with summer rich in mind.
The glass tamed the edges
of the canals, and we felt like
we were on another planet
and the world was as obedient
as any stretched place could reach,
answering sunken patterns
with blank applause.
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