If Chance herself took to crochet
and our lives she wove as separate
threads into a swollen yarn,
then Fate again has undone the
efforts of his foe leaving us part wound
and waiting for another artist's needle.
Now here in a carnation pistil I lie
recounting the crossing
of our paths trying to remember
where I saw you last.
We are in our bathing suits,
barefoot, scooping up sand
with cupped hands, kneeling
as waves crash against horizon,
as Zephyr blows the moon into an inner tube and myriad stars push the
sun down
behind the mountains.
There is laughter.
We are gliding across the wood floor,
your gaze locked with handcuffs
to the iris of my eye, hearts forcing
blood into cheeks as crickets serenade
the sandman past lilies in the river valley
up through the door to the gym
and sleep beckons to be invited in
out of the cold.
There is ardor.
We are in control of parallel situations,
gracefully mandating with body language
the actions of our allies, dictating
counteractions of adversaries despite the cat claws scratching with
breath as sweat drops to floor and field while sunbeams
fade to moon-shadows.
There is passion.
Now here in a carnation pistil I lie
looking on silver linings of solid
gold cores as passing seconds piece
together an invisible puzzle,
as Homer completes a circular simile
after puzzling over every vital piece,
as the echoes of his perfect point resonate
in my bones-
it was here that I saw you last:
the asylum of my mind.
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