Distance travels with weather
patterns defined by the warmth
of your breath against my neck,
shoulder. To reach you, I turn
or remember how to dance,
spinning like nothing else is
world, as round as this ring
or as whole as us. I know,
your contentment is my canopy,
unfurling in evergreen sails and
we drift like vivid ships cupped
on puddles of gasoline rainbows.
Our language is invented as
footsteps press fallen colors
to pulp and imagine, this path
will become paper — a clean
sheet clipped to a line, rolling in
waves against an autumn blue sky.