Q

It is the thought you I want most. Its lines
sharp and scalpel clean, breathing cool
words from my tattered paperbacks. I fold
in neat angles; a colt with origami legs quiet
on my palm.

The you now are impossible shapes in a dream
of water. Rushing, rising, ebb and slow-
shifting haze of hues I cannot name. Leave me
blinking in a curling tide. Fill each crest with hope
and a hologram you; Its sea-foam laughter

streaming through my cellophane hands. Awake,
I would unfold you and read your edges like braille.