The distance, to believe
in tragic shores, grayest moors
where we were loose on the sleeve,
further apart
from the embrace of reprieve.
Droplets on the sleeve
dotting miles of plaid and plain
up to the shoulder of your clouds
where raining eyes were pressed,
matching hearts are blessed
before layers are undressed –
to see the curve to swim against.
Dive beneath
the sea, overhead.
The world moves as a glacier,
or a worm that falters on blacktop.
The green of land screams
for our continents to come together
for beating-heart kisses.
The horizon is a line
for a bewildering signature.
I see you, written in the clouds,
connected through the tides,
dotted as ripples from raindrops
in sleeves, in the current
that carries a message, scrawled on silver
to the next sunrise.
Modern Romanticism 