Here in rain stripped views, we place our soft hands into the sand
— an applause before reckless descent 
like a white egret before the water, dear. 
                Time spent on one trace, one object, 
where 
we live and love 
in our very own pool of reverie or reality or reason. 
Here we have a place to experiment, a tongue to the tongue, 
                        the sea— our tutor. 
And within these lines are contemporary images of a girl and a boy, 
invited to consider and reclaim all that matters to them— buoyant on 
the blue, 
finger to finger, 
we hold each other 
as the sun might grasp the day. 
A generous definition striving to create prose—the proper setting for 
this would be in the east or perhaps in the dark, crouched, hidden from 
distance 
        and, 
                O— 
                        the ache.
        Others may divulge the full cache in some other method, 
laying claim to a heart that swells to the pound of splinter 
or digesting 
of flesh that becomes disquieting 
through-out the years—imposing what we call art. 
But we scream from balconies of contrasting skies— wishing, envisioning 
future stroke of lip to the touch to the heat—what is ours if only for awhile. 
We are utterly beautiful, solid, and exquisitely intact. 
                        Tender reader,
                                I love you, 
                                        I love you.
                Quiet to quiet, the mouth hole becomes 
naught, 
a ship’s sail, 
where we float for hours—nothing to say or not needing to speak—
the horizon is terribly intense— are we ideal? 
One cannot change or translate it; stating rationale seems to signal 
compelling 
composition, 
but we could never blister what lies in our palms—
        thus is love.
        We may not move exactly as directed, but we construct 
patterns and patterns of poetry that identifies us as star-crossed, influential. 
If what is brilliant in our eyes strikes them as too sodden, then they have 
in no way held butterflies in the throat, bursting to the point of provocation 
or death, 
where just one kiss would ignite them to fiery hues of blues and greens 
like the colors of the ocean as 

a whole: a provocative anthology, a classic love anecdote— dazzling scopes 
like a brush of eyelash against the cheek, 
the sand, the globe— 
explorations of the body that lead to the ideal summer that rests just outside 
the psyche or only exists when two people can imagine clear of the seen. 
                And like gentle stars, language, and love, our bond 
defies the laws of solemnity; we are above and beyond what one could ever 
envision—we are joie de vivre, with a touch of blemish that keeps madness 
at bay. 
                        But without flaw, one cannot 
experience 
the fork in the road that leads to subtle waters; he or she would tread 
the precise path— never learning of anything more. 

© 2006 Cherilyn Ferroggiaro