Sometimes my rake strikes sparkswhen I scratch the rocks or gravel—Lovers wave to soldiers on the trainin black & white movies I have seen—They cry into their handkerchiefs— The swish of my rake against the dirtmakes mountains of your

Once, while lying on a beach up north in California, I saw a whale’s spout, an explosion of released water, a trumpet’s blurt blasting from underneath the thick blue carpet of Pacific Ocean, a quick glimpse—a firefly’s blink-flash, the

He asks me for a song, so I sing one just for him. I sing of these unholy gifts stolen from within the refuge of  music. A pale moon loiters among the geometry of stars. They know about us:

We fandango/tango, our steps contradyne.** You whirl in circles; I walk the line. Your color wheel reeling spins textures of feeling. I devise derivations for rainbow equations. How would it be if we combined your circle and my line?