bright light

I can't think of you without a high bright sound
like the rim of glass spun with music under
your finger- I can't think of you without a sweet
bright light that makes morning of my eyes.

Bright light that makes morning of my eyes
hollows out the reeds in your wrists-- your bones
are veins that hold honey, old bee-stings, honeycomb cells.
I can't think of you now without a wildflower-bright under
my bones-- my bones dance and lilt with the coloured light,
the tumbled-down laugh I get when I think of how
the old days are rusting in the long grass.

The old days are rusting in the long grass.
I am balanced on the fence, and when I waver you catch me.
And I can't think of the bones in your hand-- how they move under your skin,
how they are strong and bright and hold the light like September fields,
how they close like a sun-white crab to make me straight--
I can't think of the bones in your hand without a
hum as long and bright as the summer.

Hum as long and bright as the summer;
your voice pulses like a Greek seaside town,
the smell of sage; your tuneless happy drowns all sound.
I stand up straight inside myself; my sight goes double and you are

everywhere now. I squint at you like a girl
who's lost her glasses, laughing as I
feel around for them helplessly in the long grass.