If I had had a pocket for every time
you came in the form of a misty leaf,
(sticking to the underside of my

misbelief, drawing attention to
every old logical fallacy that
was, blissfully, missed)

I still wouldn’t have enough to hold
the amount of change we’ve set in motion,
the density of our meaning, nor the

emotions you inflict on me,
from your place on that mountain.
(as if through sorcery);

And I can’t help but imagine you
as some metaphoric fountain,
forever spouting pockets—

The seeds of your actions sprouting
in neat rows of goodwill, and decisive
Indecision, your face half hidden

in some fey magic of mythologized memory
your hair ridden with peaceful fire
and emptiness, your lips set in a

quiet compassion, ashen from
the song of my phoenix lyre,
content in uncontentedness,

knowing that bliss is also not-bliss,
and that every moment spent apart
is a melody of separation: this—

the crafting of some divergent art,
spooky action at a distance, these shadow
figments mere resistance to our own

true nature: the heart’s desire, sown
in every field, every stable, this very
word, and all the fables that persistently

insist that perhaps there’s one more thing
I’ve missed. So I’ll look once more (through
that gateless gate, perceptions door) at your

sleeping face, the oceans floor, clouds weeping,
that distant shore of sandy grace:
outside time, inside space.