Sunlight from the glass
Makes your skin the color of sand
And as I admire your shadows,
Following their frayed edges with a finger
Across shoulder, down the slope of breast
To your nipple,
I find the canyon between us,
The river that runs dark and deep
Even in the day.
The music you put on
Invokes a year when I was sixteen
And you were twenty-four,
And you squint to imagine
How I might have looked.
I was skinnier,
And when framed by thick sun,
The blonde strands in my hair
Caught the light like the gray does.
You want to know if,
At sixteen, I had imagined this.
At sixteen, I would lean into the glowing glass,
And mix the dust particles slowly,
Conducting the silence, without effort.
There are no dreams at all when you’re in the spotlight
No dreams at all if you are the mountain.
If I could consider
Bright squares stretching across tables,
Or inching from couch to carpet,
I might mourn the time lost,
The years of motionlessness
In the sun,
But I am of the sand itself
And cannot cry.
Reaching to caress your cheek,
And finding your eyes in the glare,
I hope you too have come up to this place
For the calm glory,
And to warm those parts which aren’t shadow.
I would be happy
To have found another reptilian soul
On the baked surface of the afternoon.