And We Will Sing

[And We Will Sing]
(After reading Pablo Neruda)

Dear one,

when did the moon in its absolute cease
the Autumn in your eye?

The luminescence that climbs from your heel
to your mane--the candela that strings the stars
along your spine? Are you not sea’s breast,
crushing language as I glide past
the span of your mouth?

(A true
lover admits to nothing,
but a fraction of thought
flanked by sand and stone.)

I want to sit with you in the early hours
of sea fog like swollen fruit raised--
a liquid ache for lichen-covered landscapes,
lost or far-off, soft-faced forms that lack
naught in grandeur, where

the sails of my translucent dress will circle
around you and rise, unbuttoning linen
like the fragility of skin on skin, pulled
close in clover and wine.

Oh Beautiful one, may I become the final steps
of your inundated palm--lulled by the contrast
of late night photography, until I have no
more breath.

May I join in its sweetness, seeking the poetry
of Neruda, deep in your distant shores.