I want to run into you on some sunny
escapade in Chicago's brick-swelling summertime,
in the wild grins of two blessings hung
splendid aloft in the symbols of broken
thorn, of hanging vine, of flower shop roses
and creaking staircase wood, all those promises
you can make with no worry to have kept.
I want to cross in the blood's swirling air,
the staining Pollock points of traffic yellow
glint backlighting in halo-swan half-haze
looking Bacall, Bergman for the
stitching hour chained, and we were
drawing morning barely-seen through
bleary tears of dewy painter's inspiration.
I want to crash in zodiac formations
of limbs and lips and lover's wish
entangling on the musty shores of mind
imprinted silver-ruby to the twinge-shift
embossment of you and some solemn aching
shadow called myself like Euro coin back
marking of some nation lost to former epochs.
And I want to collide, connect, collide.
This night explodes in dazzle-burn of hanging
firework, the kind I'd watch set off on
the waterfront pier with the wood painted bluebird
shade as a child in sandal stocking feet
tasting first milk-laps of June: calf-footed,
unready to step.
But this is silent, no crackling crate paper
construction dividing in two the winding pages
of dusty historical tomes and newly-scrawled
chapbook lettering of soppy adolescent poetic
theatrics; streaming, all brought together
under threadbare semblance you smile.
I was just wondering: how wondrous one
evening's embrace and the arms of solemn
sleep intoned could be, how brittle-petaled
the woven crown could hem your head,
how lit to flame's flick this tremor
spirit, just and true, in knowing its nature.