::::droplets like prisms strike a chord in me
And they’ve been ringing more often than not::::



Seeds grown underground propel the earth into our trunks:
   the bark grooves like the paisley promises detailed on your sleeve’s cuff
   make oxygen hard

frizzy coffee knots of your forearms twist and turn like air bubbles sliding up around saturated hair follicles
My hands like kelp coiling through your water

each bubble holds its own world,
radiant planets on our limbs
                    ::Feeling valuable
fragrant sounds captured within its iridescent skin
  burst only to steam open eyelids between sunsets:
a hot orb of realization that crosses my fingertips

Longing

wanting to know the way you worked.
why your fingertips felt like velvet on my dimples.

the homegrown past makes me think
The White Bird never found its golden cage
And Today only existed once
everything you want I swear
all will come true

Jorma cries in the background,
       at least he makes a sound at all.