He sails a sauce pan in the sink
a mast made from a spoon,
and maps his ocean black as ink
beneath a light bulb moon.

He is searching for the islands
that they call the ***** Plates,
with golden beach of breadcrumb sands
beyond the Gravy Straits.

Where macaroni dolphins leap
beyond French Fries Lagoon,
and sing their songs as sailors sleep
beneath a light bulb moon.

Beware the corn cob crocodiles
that lurk beneath the foam,
betraying folks with welcome smiles
within their bone strewn home.

He navigates the boiling oil
and safely through the ice,
to find a place to hide his spoil
away from other mice.

So island claimed x marks the spot
his sailing days at end,
and I at last wash up my pots
that so amused our friend.

Whispers from nowhere reach beneath light
cutting through the love
I feel for you,
playing inside of my thoughts.
I think of their sound,
how I feel them in the air I breathe
and when I sleep,
how they call from every mountaintop
I have ever sought.

I find I am defining their promises
every morning
in the hush of silence
and as I write I welcome them
into the rooms of me.
I lend them my fingertips
to search for the sunlight
of my feelings
until I hear the words
that rhyme
with we.

A reflection of the whispers can be tasted
when it drifts in
with the morning's expectations
as if it flew from a cage
of intimacy.  
My air is filled with love
crying out to my heart
that this time it will not be broken
nor lie alone as I breathe.

Whispers from nowhere lead me into spaces
outside of the lines I write,
where I can feel
your embrace.  
The strings of my heart
stand still to be strummed
into place
as the promise of your fingertips
searches for the sunlight
on my feelings' face.