at night when convention breeds isolation
there is time to tip and take, & not get
all worked up about like soft sandcastles.
i can hear earfuls of sea noises outside.
and it is not important whether i am
the castle or its grand creator. what
matters is that i knew of sands once.
that gives me the peace to look
inside my peculiar architecture
to see that air completes me, &
the great lancet arches stand
as the fluff that detracts from
the countless pinpoint crevices
that pencil me into existence.
sometimes i wish to rub out
the drafting to prove i have
the electric bravery to wait
to see how the fuzzy erasures
would prove to me how fearful
i'd be to see the cuspate tips of
her smile brazenly awaiting me
behind the flaxen cloak of her
hair on that white background.
when that hour comes &
the whole gestalt gets
stolen by sourish sea salt
as one draft of wind blows
the drawing of me away, away...
i'll suck back my snotty tears &
i'll ask what her face is still doing there...