to Martina - with love.
your tiny feet hang over
the modest tapestry.
you assault the morning -
   my own, rueful morning
with the harangue of your
     viridian kisses.
in stolid nights like this, Martina, the bowl of the sky
bawls in silent ruin.
    distant roars of flightless
voices fracture the night
    your dandelion smile gone
from your primrose mouth - Martina,
   full moon, incendiary star,
in a slew of love and vertiginous
    height you danced sprightlier
  than any hapless dream soldiering on in the tight solder of the threadbare midnight. Martina - you had us trembling before, and now again, as you dash with your superlative shade that fleets,
      i wake in ruinous mornings.