Dreamt safe

in the wipe of glass, past

the days limp, part into

a bulb split to the dew, this side -

a hanging basket on the window sill.

 

Even the plaid

rush of cars, the vines of rain

threaded through,

bring you here to me – a hapless

shape maker, blotted without

your hands.

 

A sash of sun throated leaves,

a curve of slow shifting

feet, black marks of fingers

grip the seat,

even in the dangerous escape –

poised, life waits.

 

Quiet shifts,

to kiss my nose -

a net curtain, your thoughts

repose - lend my ear

things to keep you here,

though you have never

 

ever been.

Even the dull fear

of touching some other -

the street, the beyond outside

usefulness -

lists you in every step

 

and so even regret

blends you beautiful,

a medieval distance, and in the dip

I tilt my head out,

and take your heart in my mouth.