somewhere in my mind
a sky is full of kites
sunflowers blossoming on a hillside
fields of grapes, of my salt mixed with your perfume
my eyes drift across a canvas of waves
on which your warm feet have flattened grapes
into a sea diluted of sadness
stretching far from left to right
and wisping clouds above.
the heart follows timidly behind
approaching cautiously the soft strokes and waves
seeing each kite as an arrow
shot into the air by Cupid's jealous lover
as heaven's golden eye creeps past the mountain,
dips into the ocean
leaves this sky
a sweet, light wine; leaves me tipsy-turvy
while one can't help but believe:
loveliness is a vine mapped out within each
arms can hold, arms can drown
...I await yours.

Even were he to explain,
he’d much rather show
to you his scars. He bears
them like medals now,
knowing well they are
made of clad, like nickels,
like cheap bullets.

If he could, he’d chuck
all of them into the deep,
the sparkle, of a wishing well.
He knows that these scars
have not only unsown himself,
but made trenches between
him and possibilities of love.

If he could, he’d place
each scar into the chamber
of a rifle, aim the .22
he never owned at a flock
of starlings. He might miss
every time, but at least
the ravens would scatter.

He knows what he’d wish for,
were each scar dropped,
at 5 cents a wish. He has enough
of them so that they jangle
on him when you embrace.
If he could, he’d stop collecting
them, and wish them away

on you. He’d put away the rifle.
His carving of a smile would fade
into a grin. You had always been
the loveliness of a needle,
of thread and steady hands.