Hands over eyes, I speak to you and hear only myself form words
like "tree" and "dragon fruit".
What these images conjure is a time lost after its speaking,
recovered as gesture.
A window framing a river is itself
not anymore scene but pastoral
And you, standing beside it, gone to seed—
A dream of an infant.
I move my hand over your face, my way of saying
"Gone."
This uncommon becoming, looking back:
"Worlds"
"Stay" in the forever looking.
The river bends like a lover's body stopping
To pick up a stone. The word is "divide".
The brush held with an open palm
Falls.
