It is with my habit of spending nights typing
with each that finds the wastebasket,
and my red arm screeching across the old wood,
I know the path across sea.

The true north I believe in is with you
but the thought of a rain
with her muddy streets and row of ***** fingers
of children as they put paper canoes
to a pathway for the water
gives me goosebumps,
and I try to quieten myself!

The cup of coffee done
the desire has returned and startled me, once more
I raced my hand across the page
but the fair descriptions felt meek and small
not conforming to the standards of your beauty or grace—
that my loop of remembrances are oh so clear on

People they taught me, that beauty is but a dismal abyss,
look into the nature of things,
my philosophy professors encouraged in me,
teachers taught me, that it is in the bottom,
which the ***** of truth resides. But
I have now realized that beauty is a truth, but a truth so fragile
that it needs her champions to speak on her behalf,
and to teach us how to find beauty,
projected forms in ordinary stillness.

This I am certain you taught me
because when you opened your arms
and showed me the ripened ***** oh so still
you remember how I nearly fainted,
but composing myself with what reverence I touched
with hitherto unknown consciousness I possessed in my grip

oh how dark the sky gets at this still hour of midnight
when the dew drops from the heavens
take each blade of grass, and make
a moon that swims in that reflection it glows

but I once thought that
when you leave as nature always does
I would be left hanging all alone,
but I see now
that you cared enough
to keep me with a warm a company as any, save you,
from wherever you went.