I insist there must be a bay in the near distance, its sound standing in for silences of my fragmentary voice. I am afraid on many days to speak in complete sentences Does this make me obscure, hard to understand? Perhaps yes. However sunlight on held hands is speech too, as are secret glances that become new seismographs of what might move us back in, into language, its adobe house in russet, its long table with books, where you can instruct me in arts other than longing. How to be radiant, for example, or how to take residence again in the listener's ear, as a voice that can carry time, the way music does to a point of erasure, in nights, in Mexico.

shines like many others I love (or have once loved):

A clarity in the clearing, fire on the grass covered with autumn's ghostly fingerprints, without the sharp heat of the summer but not yet certain how cold hearted it should be towards the swimmers who move half dreaming, half drowning towards the coffin-valleys of hoar.

light-like luck will shine on me today,

as my ears twitch like a horse's in the breeze, in which oak leaves in burgundy & gold are arcing across lazily like comets of time.

Vanishing light, I say, will make me radiant with larkspur, will crown me with a drizzle of asters, will bring forth the angel that writhes inside me,

as I walk into a charcoal-soft dusk talking to...myself but veering towards Adrienne, who isn't by me but soon will be.