The Chinese print stirs
blue against blue,
in a slow breath of morning.
As new light is broken
on the thin shutter bones,
the air is laced with last nights` perfume,
the taste of salt and rain
and the sweeping gulls
forage and criticize.
I have seen your photograph
on the dusty shelves of friends
cold and serene.
And perfect as this sun.
Now the dappled sand gives up
fragments of a broken grail,
and some tenuous silk threads,
improbably intact.
And I watch morning fill
the white sailed yachts,
as the sea showers absolution
on all the selves
I have ever been.
