with thanks to Frank Gaspar

When I didn’t set out to write a love poem, on the radio
came reports of the Zodiac and the Moon in a precarious place. Stories
of dissonance and strangers as gifts. My thoughts on snowdrops
nestled in ice—how they resemble birdnest coral. My neighbor’s head is full
of them as she smokes in her car facing the field. Hers float out the window
like Nimbus clouds and I think of a boy chasing lizards within
a rose bush, unafraid of the thorns. How he lies on his belly, opens
his mouth and licks the spigot, munches on a rosemary, soft ropes
studded cobalt blue. I crush raspberries shaped as cupped palms
and fold them into the neighbor’s clouds. Red splatters
my shirt —how this accident pleases me and I remember running home
in the dark wanting fireflies and tulips. How I would cut the drooping
stems, plunge them under hot water and seal the sap. How stems extend
with age allowing swan-like blossoms to fall in waterfall grace over the edge
of the bowl. Then it’s in the field the edges of my eyes flicker—the transformer
sparks lightning and I meet her with eyes the same aqua as embroidered
LISBOA on her cap. She drops the dog leash and holds my hand.
I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, but I’m not supposed to be here.
Lisbon where tiles are hand decorated with beasts, fish and birds.
The boy still chases lizards. Her dog roams and I feel Earth’s engine
beneath me. Bright underbelly of sky as opera with hands
full of the warmth of snowdrops, and love arrives
on a tall ship but I have to set something down so she can paint
me with her eyes, how I can’t let go of them, and even in morning
my mouth full of cobalt blue stars. Raining blossoms and I’m blinded.
The sky bluegill. I eat her brightness.