Limited, but only as small as an
Observatory that projects a billion stars
On a spheric screen. A lounge
Where I lay to read the coded map:
The world unfolded crease by crease
In the sky and clouds, the trees—
Those inconsequential beads of leaves
All spun and flashed on the cottonwoods
That dominated distance, chittering like rain
Above the house across the street.
And I, deluded by the brush of wind
Impersonating hands that (unlike me)
Are not afraid to stroke real skin,
I close my eyes and, for a time that runs
As far toward tomorrow as I allow,
A perfect ghost lies next to me.
And together we are—both real and unreal—
Collaborators, she whispering secrets
And me believing them. Together
We lie still and uncover what is behind, inside,
Beneath the sky, the clouds, the trees.
As years go by, my ghost survives,
Stopping by most days to stroke my skin.
She holds my hand as days begin,
Sometimes whispers longing as I sleep.
We sit together as if watching a parade.
“Look at that woman’s breasts, and that one’s lips,
and that one’s eyes. I know a world where
You are not afraid to stroke her skin,
And you would watch her day begin
And catch her hips as she begins to rise.
That is what lies behind, inside, beneath—
It awaits your breath to breathe.
It waited at inception of the world,
Projected on the spheric sky.
It danced across your skin, the wind.
It needed only longing to survive."
EJR
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