Benched craze of the wool heart,
pulse in the leg reminiscent, rescued.
My urgent miscellaneous to do is
the kite sweeping our heads is the
waiting shoulder. How long has the lake
shimmered in touch, finds itself missing
while I cover my territory, returning
the gifts one by one, flowers on tightrope
in place. Again for you I wait, a
fault line. Stepping into the emergency
like lightning-struck child, the list so long
our bodies cannot stretch & make due.
I can only catch an honest eye temporarily,
the sand lapping rocks which you name.
The blue photograph I trace to the sun
& the mist you wear worn only by me
is a lingering held breath
the fragrance of fear which is home.