The lapping waves
Knock around moonlight:
Coalesce, ripple;

Kestrels in their nests,
Reflected faces; bodies still ring
-ing

Moonup, shades of sangria
hazed in mothwing
      dust

motes. We wrap in
flannel, tartan Seattle
      warmth

accompanied by smudging sticks.
Batteries never charged-
      defibrillator

shock. Flatline.
You said no violets (you
      didn’t

mean it). Moondown takes
time- scores of swaying shadows
      to arc

the parsecs. Inherit starlight,
bank it, never blink; wet stones
      echo

in the noise of stars.

Books
of
snow
in
daguerreotype
swollen
on
the
creases
sprinkling
­from
where
only
peregrines
dare

If there is a God,
my God
is a **** brunette.
Doe eyes,
stunning violet,
dark with eyeliner.

Star tattoos
twinkle on her face,
shooting across the skies

of her cheeks. A lower
lip piercing
accentuates

the **** curve
of her pouty lips.
Her lithe body,

also inked,
golden from the sun.
She smokes Camels,

sunlit smoke glowing
as it pours from her lips.
She’d ask me to join her

every time
she went outside
to have one,

grinning when she exhales.
I believe already.
My God.

Whenever the sweet-scented
calyx of palm collects the blue
midday sun in your hair, I sit
passing time in the moon’s
phases and listen to the roaring
silence of thousands of fireflies.

Outside in the cold
darkness, neck craned
toward Orion’s belt
waiting for streaks
across the sky.
Leonids passing
by, your name
orbits in my mouth
like planetary moons;
shooting stars
reflecting
the past
in your
eyes.

For Theresa. Rest in peace.*

Every star shines on you
Tonight.

Polaris, the North Star,
Will be your guide,

Reflecting your aura
In the smile

Of the Atlantic’s waves.
The silent forest

Looks to the skies
Where Ursa Major twinkles back

The light held in your eyes.
Sleeping bruins dream

About ice and glowing
Blues and greens

Dancing above;
The Northern Lights.

Every star will shine on you
Tonight.

The North Star, Polaris,
Will be your guide.