Song to Leah

Violet mist fills my chest, and I

Realize my smile is yours, can be

Passed around like cigarettes, hangs in the

Air like second hand smoke puffed at a café in

Paris fifty autumns ago.

You can’t smoke on the subway, but

We can take drags from one another’s 

Minds – flashes of brilliance transfigured by touch like 

Zeus striking the sublime into a mutinied man

Clinging to his raft, who for too long

Drifted on still waters, drowning in dense fog.

Energy is like a rustic island, where the whole geology is

Known by the flesh, sunlight fingers divine each occurence, and

Teleportation is possible through the acknowledged

Power to create one’s own world; the force in 

Fools kind enough to embrace their lovers in tears and in whirls

Pierre’s dockside cabin. It sits alone on an inlet up north,

Purposely built out of reach from deep indigo seas, and

The turquoise leviathan often seen by the

Eyes of young children, who rolls amongst the waves

And is called by many names

Pierre’s content to play cards with 

Shipwrecks. You and I will stumble upon him one

Night: waterlogged, bruised, and begging for food. He’ll

Warm our hands by the fireplace, pass around unnamed tea. He’ll 

Awaken a smile that allows us to breathe.

We’ll hang ‘round and watch him teach.

We’ll party by his side ‘till the sun’s on the rise. Then,

Onwards, to the endless white sand beach.

––February 19, 2020