my bones break from the sheer weight
    of the imagined moment where
  
  you trill on my bough
  like a wan heron
  or the immense warble
  of a bird

   or say,

where the eternal breast of
  the shore is touched a hundredfold
  by the wave's quivering hands,
  where the salt is poised in the bendable
  light swaying in the water against
    the high noon.

what moves the sea
  is what moves the fruition of
   my being to where you are,
near or away, still like a photograph
    close to my chest, nursing your
   warmth in me, like a fire to
    a hearth but you are not with me.