Difficult to divine how you arrived,
not water-doused or mail-slotted to me,
but whole in your stone-centered gaze, almost
tired out by your ninety days under stars.
Satisfied by none, you chose me to be
your canary, waiting, green with hope for
your return. Coming home from the back-woods,
you made me into your mooring, fashioned
yourself into a pilgrim to my bed’s
unmade shrine. I’ll make a Ulysses out
of you yet. Yes, the butterfly kind, blue
body mild as the Aegean, crushing.
I will weave our dreams together: never
go back to sea without me as your mate.
About the Author
Published by Texas Review Press