The color of my longing is mineral: obsidian
sheen in the time it takes for language to surface,
the compass points of intention hardening
in the sun. I am saturated with the intensity
of its darkness. Such depth renders
cave-like spaces inside me— I turn them
into grottoes, gathering bits of wreckage
and lighting them as fires, so the blue
of my longing can burn. Imagine a ship
laden with memory and salt, setting out
with full sails of intention, then
drifting in circles from the sheer
magnitude of desire— the kind of ocean
that keeps widening even when nothing moves.
But this too is abundance: so much blue,
a whole sky seems to have fallen into the water.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
