After The Rain

Jel­ly­fish like Dale Chi­huly glass float through your heavy-lidded eyes.
It’s the light after the rain catch­ing reti­nal cor­ners as you drift down and away;
again, the jel­ly­fish, all rhythm and sway, tak­ing you back to salt water dreams before
you were born.

I sing Paul Simon’s Kodachrome
and I imag­ine it’s the faint vibra­tion of my chest mov­ing
that you nes­tle to, maybe the low, harm­less rum­ble of a friend jump­ing
into the water beside you.

You are silent. I shush and your eyes widen briefly as if
to ask if I hear it too, the whole of the ocean’s shush.
If desire had ears, I would hear.
What you see in full is for me the
edge of gull’s shadow glanc­ing
on the sur­face of the water.

I blan­ket you with metaphors and images, drape you with
blushed chroma, swad­dle you in dif­fused and spack­led light,
light like look­ing up from the deep end at the sun danc­ing
on the water. I bap­tize you in art, because I have no
greater gift to lay at the foot of your per­fect, sleep­ing
self.