I don’t just see her; I feel her, her eyes felt

on skin on time…a roving slow brushing away

of yesterday, I feel her eyes holding me…

settling on my shoulders carrying a weight

like thinking, like thinking that tomorrow

may not come but always thought of as if

it will…a weight like the sadness when  we

want and are unrequited are lost a little are

wandering without notice of breathing…of

living we feel the weight but don’t because

it is never not there…something sitting slowly

quietly and forever we think (when we can

ever think of forever).

I don’t just hear her; I swim though vibrations

through eddies and currents of whispers

dreams all concurrent all sliding past with the

slightest movement toward a focus once

planned now idealized and made secondary

the sound of her voice flowing amidst the

idea that there is more to living than can be

seen than is heard felt known always a motion

forward, a grand convergence of want need

love desire feeling along for the edge of the

table the place where solid flat ends in empty

air, in the place where we think.

I don’t just know her; I want to be her skin

her covering her collapsing tent all covered all

fallen by wind by neglect by the fact that

creating that closeness connected confusion

of here and there her and me…I want because

I can—it has no cost no risk—to want to dream

to visualize a tomorrow unlike today while all

the while the time moves past us past them

past this moment and I think that creating

today over and over and…