for ian.
I awaken amidst a blanket of white and dreams
casting a circle of salt, and words
I do not recall
beckoning you--
but you
are someone I never knew, but played radio tower for
at ten thousand feet to hear an
Italian song throbbing over the clouds and through my blood.
Maybe because
I have left bread crumbs
of myself everywhere.
Maybe because
I felt the tendrils, invisible but deep
reaching down and through everything to you.
I open...
walking the rim of the canyon to the faraway trill of Sandhill Cranes.
And then
I close and I close until I do not know
if I am flower or stone.
I would be water, the ocean,
and whales and sea turtles my bones
washed up on an island
only reachable
by boat.
I would be storm and lightening and wind
to find you
but I am a desert--
sand dissolving, becoming nothing but your song.