East of the Sun

I often try to sing of penciled landscapes where we two might meet. My clumsy words hatching crumpled rocks to top a barren line, and in between their gaps, thick trunks I sketch, to sprout bouquets of vibrant green. But I give these trees too much life, too much choice, missing you, they pull up their roots and escape the page to run

down mirrored corridors. The future and familiar trade steely gaze, as wooden crowds lead in fruitful chase, pointing my not-belonging eyes toward stainless pods; squat glowing bellies lined with leather laps where I could slip, nestle and pillowed watch digits whirl backward, dialing a piped-in lilt, my lullaby to a past that trips its way

across black-and-white tiles. Instead I dodge as I skip-dance through dozens of mechanical players, lounging above carved pieces, hand-painted with perplexing stares. These salt-and-pepper pawns I grab and toss shoulder-ward, unsettling over-recked games not fit for the fancied fix I place on distant cracked pedestal. Then, a stray

among banqueted queues of chattering guests, who ivory arrayed wait beneath vaulted glass, I see your finery's smile beyond them, with pen poised atop my hard-bound tale of tender leaves. The ink on cream, once-written you tear, so that together we can fold papyrus sail boats homeward pushed by a shared breath's slow unwind