where the moon curves streets into moss pearl bends,
you find me bending song into a violin with equity
for bow and instrument, drilling notes with delicate
trills, and not for me, but for you love, for you
my loves.

I speak in silence with the eloquent whispers of starlight
coursing through bloodlines, my ancestors name was "Morning Star"
and like him, I subsume new monikers for new places, and assume
old names in ancient homes. But do not call me a liar,
for I have never told a lie, well that is my first lie of the day.

I wish to meet you at the train station, you who threaded my heart
with golden curls of love's ancient lace that traveled from truck
to boat to track with the delicate loopings of a dragonfly's ease,
buzzing with tensile power. To you I dedicate this memory of sights
in Seattle, the buses moaning, the women slowing, and the coffeeshops
closing me down; the ancient scenes plucked like harps from dreams
that taught me just how to calm down.

I wish to speak with you under lamplight at even a slovenly restaurant
that serves ample props to enact a consolate conversation; the margins
of love are what I am after, the footnotes, appendicies, indexes, and
jotted notes looping with serpentine innuendo.

The only promise I make is that one day I will bring you flowers,
violet germaniums and softened peonies luffing with the weight of perfume.



I am not a robot, I am not a creep, I am not a blow-off, and I will not be put to sleep, so carry me with the cradle of your hands to where even the redwoods lay low, and marble arches crenulated in the twilight carry volumes of both star and stone.