and so i remember

her smile reflected

in the crashing waves

(and spread in ribbons of moonlight,

fallen from much greater shoulders)

upon them...

and she was so young then

so pale and peach and silver

my jennifer, my charlotte, my delicious

and enigmatic alexandria...

and all of our paint colored breaths

illuminating the symphony of atoms in the ether,

and how in days like this, i sit

almost sad and beautiful, watching the careful

fingers in my mind trying to fasten

down the band-aids and silk tourniquets

around the wet edges of these things...

and the shiver of the great breath

let go in the masterpiece.

for there are no such anchors to bind this

perhaps only the thick and elegant stone of thunder

and perfectly straight edges and lines of lightning

and the magnificent storming

and tears.

and again, it is not for certain

if these were at all things

that i have seen, or

if there can be such a thing

and if at all so, it is not

for certain

how these things will change, and blur,

and sparkle in the puddy and puddles of great

and malleable truth...

oh no my dear

this is at best

only the how it is

of what i am seeing.