If You Trace Even One of My Words

 

with a finger I will (let you) know.

If you mean even just one given

look at the moon I will know that, too. If you 

peel off one lonely star and put that

shining shell in your watch pocket for

later or to skip across your sad

 

pillow in the middle of your dreaming lake

I will know it. If you somehow love

the mysterious ways of the sea 

without trying to capture any

living thing hiding in the woods I

will become a better artist. Now

 

will you please remind me of what our

hearts already know? If you do I

will flutter in all the breezes for 

your sake. If you take a softer step

I will know. If you remember all

things can happen I'll be generous

 

and smile. My work's exhibited in

a small bow, it's true, but can be a

deeper portal, a nice addition 

to the journey. If you think it will

really work I will know. That is the

bowl of water left out at sunrise for all wild things to come and go.

 

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

Bonus poem:

Whatever I Say,

whatever I do, the dazzling islands

of your secret pleasures always smacks my

emissary boat with its deeply timeless

storm. Whatever I write, the unused

victory of your unprecedented 

gate's explosion dreams my mind and flattens

my grass. The unused language of your

violin loses my heart every time.

The unused benevolence of your sweet

honeysuckle ticket to tomorrow

gets me lost. The unused surges of your

satisfaction I could never dismiss.

And the unused saddle of your whispered

feeling transfers all my golden brown cakes 

to paper towels of heart ache, mi amor.

The unused water-covered planet of

your national economy makes me

want to turn the pages of fitful sleep

to only you. Whatever I am, the

unread poem of your mouth still makes me.