sept 25/07, morning (revised from Feb/99)

the beat of the sun
is nothing
at all like
that of my blood and
your eyes are
nothing like the full moon
(though, in fairness, they
do make me howl and
go crazy),

so i don't know what,
if anything,
to associate with nature
(since this pen is
nature and this computer screen is
nature),

but you have a talent, you told me,
for spreading your toes out wide and for
spreading yourself out thinly,
and as we lie
there together, your left hand trailing
off towards the floor your
fingers pointing outward, pointing me
in some strange direction,
you said:

be careful what you wish for--
you just might get it.

now you're gone.