Saturday, August 27, 2005

Written with Salt (1)

My dream, she flew to Italy
on white-silver wings,
leaving behind
our floating pillows,
our hushed morning telephone calls
and the baby fat beneath
the round softness of her face
and shoulders I had wanted
so much
to kiss.

She sends all her dreamers
photographs and there are days
when I wonder if she looks at mine
with her eyes a-twinkle, wondering
how I've been

I'm older, dearest, if you cared to know.
I sometimes miss you and I'm slightly envious--
I had once hoped to take you to Italy
and marry you there.

1 comment: