blue. right up.

tree branch patch
of sky. blue, two fingers touch
your lips.

at the edge: saturday is sunset over bay -
boston in the distance - a sail boat between us.

it passes on. it all passes on.

years ago: my hand, two fingers, slice the water;
tiny (to me) waves ripple out, hit smash islands like domes.

a storm is coming, says the butterfly to no one in particular.

oblivious to butterflies, i run my fingers through my hair.
i touch my face.

a scrap of truth escaped here once and only once and i'll never visit here again.

i will never visit here again. despite the storm and the waves and the sailboat once between us.

two fingers, blue, from water to hair to your lips.

red. whistle.

thank you.