June flows through conduits,
blood racing through arteries:
energy in power lines,
vapor cycling
through phase shifts.
You blush like a cynosure
only idly parting
apples from stems.
The Sun.
Brilliantly through car windows
on unreal highways,
spotting my bad eyes
holding stolen glances.
"Are these roads or islands?"
"I guess they're both."
Driving to the Keys, the power lines
straddle cement supports
sunken in the sea.
"How can they do that?"
"What? Oh, they're classically trained;
Reich discovered it."
"No, the power lines.
How do they do that?"
"Must take some sweet-talking."
"They'll be beautiful in ruins."
Time draws close
and presses on memory.
The road wavers in its spectrums
like a curtain that will fall or withdraw.
"So are we going the right way?
Should we turn around?"
"I've always wanted to write the ocean."
Blue that slows the blood in your eyes,
with the Sun's gold
and the sand white.
Brilliantly in coruscation
the ocean spills into the sky
calmly parting
liquid to curtains:
tides phasing
through crescendos.
"Then think of us.
We were the ocean once
trading lightning bolts with heaven."
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