Somewhere, a turtleneck is missing its girl.

A flute polishes its pearls.

A star is resisting imploding, pulling

her paths into his roads.

Just to cross and not too close.

Inches from freckles forever

in view, Sad eyes are made

lighter than blue.

If Fantasy looms, it’s because he’s

standing on a pedestal.

He’s selling notions to buy an ocean—

somehow he believes:

If this man is an island,

She might be the sea.

He could feel the dips and sit

within the swells.

He buys a notion from and for himself

And, as he unfolds his pleats,

he yells,

‘We All Have

clean sheets and dusty shelves.’