we are honey baked breaths, my happy sunday heart
hums along to golden plumed pens tap-drumming out
your letters, picture postcarded cabins on lakes shored in candy colored dusk
and day-glo gardens afternooned in loose hands looping "hello", "miss you", "see you",
always soon, so soon it is always already now.
we are sent in boxes, birds feathered in drip paint diamonds dipped doctorally,
mastered by poems and picture books pressed between us, sky high
hands steepling fiery fingers tipping in midwestern winds singing
sighs sundry so asunder our sun dries under the blue snowglobe bowl.
we are infinite, to life four new years toasted, drinking well to the
362 miles dusted between our honey baked breaths missing
the pretty rooms we built in Judaeo-Cuban dances through rain
locked nights fevered alive, alight in rivers valleying home.
this is what an island in the middle of the continent feels like.