down beautiful way high
for my wife
 
i know you are fish-vanilla  trees,
bird-gray shallow water stones over your eyes
like finger rain.
 
you are this peace/chance/girl
in southern november leaves and sand---
 
your wall-green clocks faux-sun plaster on sex-wet thighs.
 
you are no bronze-mode city,
no kaminos marias soup
of orange moons sliding my mouth,
 
no novel/crayon/cigarettes.
 
your lover is choking on lonely ink
and charcoal film;
where has he gone silver watered?
 
where, picture-eye-framed,
peach-tin sky burning rattle-cough red,
down beautiful way high like trembling?
 
i know you are (art, art, art)
pop/paint/explosions,
your tongue blue against yellow
cochlea eye-tapping---
 
are my hand shock radio static sight.