Oh, this is the love I meant,
or at least a happy accident,
there's clouds up in the canopy,
on a veranda set in eternity.

And there's seashells on the shore,
upon the land-dweller's front door,
I sing my song and place it to your ear,
but I'm drowned out from the ocean roar.

I've been a shed hollowed out;
left to stew in damp and doubt,
you hold my stomach, your face is kind,
and all of the knots begin to unwind.

We are train-stop lovers
beside the vending machines,
a ukulele sonnet,
for the clued up has-beens.

Now we're set to light
under the wash of stars,
until we feel great belonging
to all of the so-fars.

So without saving face or attempting subtlety,
or basking under conceited poetry,
under Costa Rican skies, in a writer's retreat,
in this astral plain where new lovers meet;

that for all the glory I may come to see,
there's none more beautiful
or rare than thee.