I sense the smallest moments.
I’m certain of the scent of your
cologne from those summer evenings
on the beach, the center of fire and wind,
and nettles on bushes
… and kisses, like a hidden language
with cellophane-wrapped answers
or the double vision of the moon
praying magic on the sand
as it slips along the water;
small laughter coexisting
over time, cries perpetual.
I’d like to feel evening’s flight
circle amounting pictures
within the slowness of hours,
or the rain running down
my shoulders while dimensions change
over distant summer’s momentary
affection of intrigue:
a clear burn to the beat of the heart
that finds a secret space
touch the wings,
now locked away forever.