love letter ( number two)

We believe in chimneys and bricks, we believe 

in smoke so we call it gray and ribbon

as it spirals above the dusk. We believe in 

the sky so much that blue is lost

in the tumble blooming above the stiff horizon,

throaty pastel bloating the oilskin of the sun

returning to the sea. We stare until

there is no longer any light. We believe. 

And these things make sense in little worlds, 

to name, to measure, to speak, to stare:

I watch you turn from left to right,

I watch you turn away. I believe

the spill of skin, the smooth struggle of each

shoulder, the edible depth of your stride toward 

the horizon. I believe in the mottled shadows,

the elasticity of contrast as headlights 

briefly bring you back to me, the motion of

your name in deep relief across the blank pavement,

your shape touching me with what it obscures.

You move between me and distance, hair

clinging to your shoulders and the shrill

hiss of spinning tires and the struggle 

to breathe or rebuild the world in your wake. 

(first published in 1992)