If, when counting colossal breaths,
the symmetry proves
too much, call down to me the
ways you’d like to further vanish.
Take me as a place you’d
travel to, when the swallows
go. All I can know about
you surfaces briefly, as if caught
in some oblivion. Some mornings,
I wake to gentle breath, and think in
soft touches, wonder where your
mind goes each night.
I could keep reaching for certainty
in response to this
but why land there? Let’s
step out somewhere more
blue-evoking, or bend the
river north. It isn’t
too important to decide
where to build the farm,
or the house with exposed wood;
the ceiling fan turns slowly above me.
I picture linens rippling in gentle
heat. Somewhere far away, a morning
dove perched on the moss fence
sings his holy tune.