I want to think
about you, un-posed, beneath
the mimosa, on the warm
morning, with the sun urgent
to stretch high above the
protected terrace.  Rake on the
sand, careful about the plants,
reckless about the night, a thick
band of silver, about your
wrist, each stone, agave and
orange.  I want to watch you pick
the cards up, safely,
corner to corner, unhurried,
like softball, near the end
of  the game.  
I want to know the
thoughts, delicate, triumphant,
beaded with drops, not tears.
Threads that shine with the
last light.
Deft finger tips
careful to unwind, and
not to unlock.