Like a star exposing the black
of an Alaskan winter
your voice is a strange reality

taunting the new moon with sparks
that fly from the strings when you scrape
a flatpick along them,
igniting them

with a whisper from outside
the chords you can’t unplay ——
I stumble in the same direction,
a pen leaking across the table
in search of the dawn
that lies beyond
the footprints left like tombstones

collecting dirt and weather
in an overgrown lot,
reveling in the frost
when its warm and the sun when it’s not.
I can only hope the ink will dry
with out smearing

into the green of my oceans
or your forests,
where we swim and crawl
outside of science —– two molecules
of hydrogen awaiting oxygen
to break down the barrier
between sky and sea.

I like a good cigar
and snifter of Grand Mariner
while waiting on the manifest.
You don’t

condemn or condone
while I burn and drown
for a second, reaching out you hand
as precise as the notes
you sing;

strong enough to stand
alone, with the strength of Lot, knee deep
in the sand outside
Gommorah, refusing to become

salt and dreaming of storms
to ravage the desert,
pushing hard against the wind
where I hear your voice
but not the words
it’s singing.