When I see you, my fingers
They are covered with juice of apricot and the sweet stains of
Ripe blueberries. If I were to write, I would leave evidence all over the page.
When I see you,
The moon is not a moon. It is a silver-white pigeon, wandering in the clouds,
Fluttering yet lost.
My heart is not a heart. It is this hanging white moon.
On your eyelashes
Holds a petal of white lilac from an old far fair morning.
When I see you, I have small light bulbs wrapped in flannel in my chest. Those strings of round, goose-yellow warm sun were once hanged in Bryant Park on Thanksgiving of 2017 with people wandering in and out. They shone next to the heartwood. Lovers who I never met again once kissed in the late autumn, with the scent of white cream and strawberry on crepe. In the slightly cool night, the scent, like halos of the sweet liqueur, were
When I see you
I think of all the people I ever thought I have loved.
I were naïve; not knowing that I were just standing on the bank Of love, gazing. And it is now rising, like the Nile
I see you; when I see you. I am faint because of the separation that has not happened yet.
Because of those conversations which have not occurred yet