He’s coming
here in two
months
to visit
like a tourist
but not to see
monuments
or beaches
or the sun
but to see
me
and to laugh
at old jokes
and whisper
secrets
in the billowy
winds of the
pacific
laying together
on an island
like our own
little
rowboat

It’s raining
in the hills
this morning
clouds weeping
like a frightened
child
the clouds
moved across
the ridge
above my house
like protestors
moving quickly
they engulfed
my house
like crisp
stationary
in an envelope
the rain
came in deckled
sheets
bringing
with it
cleanser

bled into
night turning
white billowy
clouds
into the powdered
and rouged
cheeks
of antiquated
ladies
the midnight
blue
of the
western sky
turned
a plum
purple
by the
orange
sunlight
as the sun
crested
the ridge
above my
house
petals of
sunflower
sunlight
streaked
the rooftops
making them
turn
to
gold

Where do
we pull
from when
inspiration
has left
on the last
bus
words come
but they’re
staggering
like a drunk
in mud
these words
burn
today
like hot
ingots
pulling
them
like bad
teeth

His skin
is the color
of nutmeg
and as soft
as cinnamon
his body
is short
and flexible
like a rubber
band
deep brown
eyes the color
of molasses
sit in pecan
shaped lids
his mouth
an oyster
opens slowly
his tongue
has its own
mind darts
into mine
drawing my
breath from me
or is it simply
the sound
of ecstacy