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